


All That We Leave Behind

by Ana Lake (SummerStorms)



Series: By Honor Bound [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Mystery, Tok'ra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 64
Words: 282,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerStorms/pseuds/Ana%20Lake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the universe accepts our intentions at face value. Sometimes it has other plans. And sometimes, the road home is longer than you think.</p><p>Jack O'Neill's one-time best friend had sacrificed himself while helping Jack save Earth from a black hole. But was he really gone? The past be damned; Jack wasn't about to leave Frank Cromwell behind if he could help it.</p><p>Lost on a planet in rebellion against the Goa'uld, and with no knowledge of the gate addess for Earth, Cromwell finds unexpected allies while waiting for the chance to go home. But he is unprepared for a shocking discovery that will take him on an odyssey that no one could have anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A further note

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["A Light In Dark Places", "All Go Down Together", "What Love Remains", "So Builds An Absolute Trust"](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8000) by Flora, with help from Gallagater on "So Builds An Absolute Trust". 



> **Status:** Work-in-progress, with regular updates
> 
>  **Season:** Season 2
> 
>  **Episode Spoilers/Tags:** major for _A Matter of Time_ , plus minor tags for _The Torment of Tantalus_ , _Cold Lazarus_ and for _The Tok'ra, Pts. I & II_. Possible oblique references to events of other episodes from the pilot up to the end of Season 2.
> 
>  **Missing Scenes:** _A Matter of Time_
> 
>  **Category:** This is basically a Gen drama, and will also include a mystery to be solved, a bit of angst, some action, adventure and a small romantic subplot between a nominally-canon character and an original character. Should also be considered AU, in that A) someone considered to have died in the series is presented as alive in this story, B) we will be meeting an Earth-origin culture that was addressed later in the series, but I am giving it a different spin than the series did, and C) this story will also introduce a non-canon subgroup of a canon alien species.
> 
> Archive: [Ana's Lakeside](http://www.anaslakeside.com/ATWLB.html), [Fanfiction.net](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6311078/1/All_That_We_Leave_Behind), [Symbiotica](http://tokra.fandomnet.com/viewstory.php?sid=124). May be archived elsewhere, but ask my permission first, please.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Standard. Stargate SG-1, its characters and all related entities are property of Stargate SG-1 Productions (II) Inc., MGM Worldwide Television Productions Inc., Double Secret Productions, Gekko Film Corp and Showtime Networks Inc / The SciFi Channel. No copyright infringement is intended. I am in no way affiliated with any of the foregoing entities; these are not my characters, I'm merely taking them out for a little exercise and fresh air, I'm not making any money from this, etc. (In fact, if I did own the Stargate franchise, elements of this story would have formed part of a major arc, and at least one group of aliens would have been a little less hardassed. Also, Seasons 8, 9 and 10 would have been very different. Well... Ahem. Anyway.)
> 
>  **Special Note:** I can but stand on the shoulders of giants. Many thanks to the extremely talented (and difficult-to-reach) Flora and Gallagater, authors of some very fine Frank Cromwell-centric fic available at [www.jackfic.net](http://www.jackfic.net). Flora's trilogy of [A Light in Dark Places](http://www.jackfic.net/archive/archive/20/alight.html), [All Go Down Together](http://www.jackfic.net/archive/archive/21/allgodowntogether.html) and [What Love Remains](http://www.jackfic.net/archive/archive/10/WhatLoveRemains2.html), along with [So Builds An Absolute Trust](http://www.jackfic.net/archive/archive/11/So_Builds_an_Absolute_Trust.html), by both of them, have proven inspirational to me -- although I began this story before reading any of theirs -- and if it seems that I have adopted their take on Frank and Jack's prior history together as essentially 'true', this is because of the astounding quality of their work. I find I cannot improve upon it, only embellish. Those are four stories in a series, and I highly recommend the [entire series](http://www.jackfic.net/archive/cgi-bin/search.cgi?ShortResults=0&Title=&Title_Range=0&Author=Flora&Author_Range=0&Summary=&Date=0&SortBy=0&SortOrder=0&NumToList=0&FastSearch=0&SeriesTo=). Furthermore, reading them, while not completely necessary to understanding my story, will provide more depth to anyone choosing to do so. It should be noted that the interactions between Jack and Sara, and between Sara and Lisa, from _What Love Remains_ wouldn't actually have occurred in the universe in which my story takes place, for timeline-related reasons which will become obvious to my readers, but the interactions between Frank and Sara from that story ring very true to my own universe.
> 
> All credit for the existence of Lisa Cromwell, Captain Stuart, Sergeant Douglas and the 121st Special Tactics team goes to Flora, for they are her inventions. I am only borrowing them, and will forever remain more deeply indebted to her genius than I can express.
> 
> A big "you rock!" to my friend Richard M. for editing duties and general feedback. The same to fellow fan and ficcer Nzie, who helped me to navigate the shadows within Jack O'Neill's mind, and to Sealurk, for diligent beta reading and much encouragement.
> 
>  
> 
> _This story is for D.C., wherever he may be. Godspeed, my friend._

  
**Author's Note on the Story and Its Setting**   


 

Please be aware that while there are descendants of a Welsh culture addressed in later seasons of SG-1, this is one way in which my universe is alternative. This is a different Welsh group from the canon culture. The people of Tir Awyr were taken from the British Isles on Earth around the beginning of Roman occupation. They were spirited away and enslaved by a completely original Goa'uld posing as the deity Belatucadros no later than the 1st century CE, which is roughly four to five centuries prior to what might be considered "Arthurian" times. None of what I do in this story is intended to tie in with the canon Welsh arc in any way, because those events don't exist in my universe. Nor do the Ori.

Also, any modern or near-modern Welsh language used in this story is intended to stand in for a hypothetical related language, Pridanic, descended from the Brythonic language of the time when these people were taken from Earth. Brythonic was one of the two major language groups of the British Isles in pre-Saxon, pre-Roman times, and later went on to produce Welsh, Cornish, Cumbric, Breton and possibly other tongues. In the period from 100 BCE to ca. 150 CE, the time the Celtic peoples in this story were taken from Earth, Brythonic is postulated to have been one common language, possibly with two dialects. I am taking some license with the idea that another language evolved from Brythonic in off-world isolation would be at least close enough for a Welsh speaker to learn easily, although in actuality, that may not be as unlikely as it might sound, especially given the strong motivation of utter necessity. But in any case, if invoking artistic license is what it takes so that poor Frank can at least manage to communicate, then I'm all for it!

I will use a similar convention with regard to any other languages that crop up; if you, the reader, run across a Gaelic phrase in this work, it is intended to stand in for something evolved from a Goidelic language of the period spanning roughly 200 BCE to 200CE. Note that I am not a professional linguist (I only _wish_ I could afford that much education!), nor do I play one on TV, and I'm just doing the best I can with online resources. I think I'm learning some of both Welsh and Scottish Gaelic in the process, so that's not a bad thing. Thank you for your understanding.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colonel Frank Cromwell awakens on an alien world, surprised to be alive. Back at the SGC, an innocent question from Daniel sends Sam back to her calculations; while at home, Jack reflects on friendship and loss.

 

 _Whoever seeks to preserve his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life will keep it._ — Luke 17:33

 

Colonel Frank Cromwell regained consciousness with no real idea where he was. He only knew that he was miraculously, inexplicably, still alive, and that it was nighttime. A glance at the sky showed no sign of the black hole he'd seen on the monitor at the SGC, meaning that he couldn't be on the planet to which their Stargate had previously been connected. It also confirmed that he was not on Earth, either. The stars were all wrong. Not a single recognizable constellation graced the sky, though the luminous ribbon of the Milky Way crossed it, shining even broader and more brightly than he had ever seen it from Earth. Absently rubbing a tender spot on the back of his head from where he must have struck it on his landing, he sat up gingerly and surveyed the area around him. He was at the bottom of a shallow set of steps; there at the top was this world's Stargate. The wormhole must have jumped to it, as Captain Carter had predicted it might. Though wasn't the end connected to Earth supposed to skip? By all rights, he ought to have been pulled directly through to the world being devoured by the black hole, unless he'd seriously misunderstood the nature of what they were doing. As he'd let go of O'Neill's harness, he had done so fully expecting a one-way trip to oblivion. And what had happened to the energy from the bomb blast? Had it been completely absorbed by the wormhole itself?

Well. Physics had never been his strong suit, and he'd been wrong before, hadn't he? Cromwell's misjudging a situation had once let his best friend get stranded, left behind, captured, imprisoned... He shook his head to derail that train of thought, then thought better of it as a headache bloomed. He'd knew he'd be lucky if he didn't have a concussion.

As he wriggled out of the G-suit and climbing harness he'd been wearing when fell, he reviewed his understanding of his present predicament. The wormhole had jumped away from the black hole system; of that much he was certain, primarily because he was alive to ponder it. The fact that he apparently had still been in transit at the time had saved his life, but now he was stranded. _At least for the moment,_ he reminded himself sternly. No telling what could happen. Hadn't experience already taught him that?

He could only hope that someone back at the SGC knew where the wormhole had skipped to, and that eventually they'd send a team to check on whether he'd survived the trip. But that involved an awful lot of "ifs": if Captain Carter's calculations had been correct, allowing the SGC and its Stargate to come through the blast intact; if their equipment indeed proved capable of telling them which world the wormhole had connected to after disconnecting from the black hole; if they entertained any thought that he might possibly have survived the transit; if they could spare the personnel to mount a search-and-rescue mission. When you strung them all together like that, it was probably safer to assume he was on his own.

Of course, what he might do now eluded him. He had no idea how to return to Earth by himself, supposing such a thing were even possible. A rounded device mounted on a pedestal stood before the gate, but he couldn't make out much detail in the faint starlight. Some kind of controller, perhaps? Not that he'd have any way of knowing how to operate it. There was little moonlight, despite the presence of not one but two moons in the sky, a pair of slightly differing crescents, both rather dim, perhaps five degrees apart in the — western? eastern? — sky. Cromwell realized that he had no clue which was which here, so he settled with his back against the pedestal and watched the sky for a while, until he could determine in which direction the stars set. Okay, so that established east and west, at least for his immediate purposes.

Scanning the horizon also gave him some idea of the general area. He was on top of a gently sloping grassy hill, surrounded on all sides by low woodlands. No city lights were visible as far as Cromwell could see, leading him to wonder whether he had wound up on an uninhabited planet, or merely a primitive one. The air was pleasantly warm, he was breathing easily enough, and the night was full of the sort of sounds one might expect to hear in any sufficiently rural place: the faint drone of night insects, mostly, interspersed with the tiny rustlings of small creatures through the underbrush. Nothing sounded terribly large, although he knew this was no reason not to be vigilant. Then again, according to his watch he must have lain un- or semi-conscious for about twenty minutes after his arrival, with no one and nothing coming to investigate.

He spent the next four hours watching the sky, listening for sounds of approach and contemplating his course of action. Not many options presented themselves. Either the SGC would send someone to rescue him, or they wouldn't. If they did, then great. If not... Well, then he either lived out his life here, or found some way of getting off this world. While he'd been briefed on the existence of stargates, he had no idea how to actually operate one, so that last could prove tricky. It would be helpful to know whether anyone else lived here; come dawn, he'd explore the general area near the stargate to determine whether or not he was alone. He would remain relatively close to the gate for several days, however, just in case someone came to find him. And so, when the sun — somewhat yellower than the sun he was used to — rose, he took to his feet and began to look around.

The Stargate occupied a flattened plaza at the top of the hill. Three stone steps led up to the Gate itself, and the area immediately in front of the steps was paved with flagstones. The object he'd come to think of as a controller rose from the center of the paved area, and the whole installation was ringed by a circle of hewn stones, each roughly the size of a cinder block, pressed end-to-end into the grassy turf. About ten feet beyond this, a further perimeter was described by a quartet of standing stones, aligned with what were probably compass points. To all appearances, this space was still in use: the flagstones looked well-maintained, with only a few blades of grass poking up between them, and the perimeter blocks were clearly visible rather than being overgrown. So there were probably people, or whatever passed for people on this world, somewhere in the area. Hopefully they would turn out to be friendly rather than hostile.

He studied the controller. It was round, somewhat reminiscent of a sundial with a large red hemisphere occupying its center. Arranged in a double ring around the hemisphere were symbols corresponding to those on the Stargate itself. "Like dialing a phone," Cromwell whispered to himself. "I wonder how you get Directory Assistance?" Dialing symbols at random seemed like good way to wind up in an even worse position than his current one.

From the plaza, a narrow dirt track in the turf curved down the slope of the hill and into the forest. Cromwell shrugged and set off along it, stopping just inside the treeline to stash the G-suit and harness under a half-rotten log. Stretching muscles still sore from the punishing gravity well that had led to his trip through the gate, he began to follow the trail deeper into the forest. Doing something felt better than doing nothing, even if all he could accomplish at the moment was a basic reconnaissance of the area. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to see if he could find food and water, as well as some sort of shelter. There was no telling how long he might be here.

 

***

 

Captain Samantha Carter stood in the Control Room, surveying the Gate Room through newly replaced windows. Installation of the upgraded trinium-enhanced iris had been swift, and things looked to be getting back to normal. _Well, almost normal,_ she amended. The memorial service for Henry Boyd and the rest of SG-10 was scheduled for 14:00, just under five hours from now. Due to the bizarre nature of the time dilation caused by the black hole that was slowly destroying P3W-451, they would be holding a memorial for a team who weren't exactly dead yet, and wouldn't be for a near-infinite span of time. However, they were completely, irretrievably lost to the SGC and the rest of the normal universe, and she supposed that was as close to dead as made little difference to the families and friends they left behind. Besides, it wasn't as if the true nature of what had happened to them could be revealed to anyone outside the SGC. As far as their loved ones would ever know, they had simply died in the line of duty, their bodies lost to whatever disaster had been dreamt up by those responsible for making such explanations to anyone who could not be told the truth.

She wondered, however, whether there would need to be a memorial for yet another victim of the black hole. Colonel Frank Cromwell had fallen into the Stargate while helping Colonel Jack O'Neill set a shaped charge to explode in close proximity to the gate in an attempt to cause its connected wormhole to jump away from P3W-451 and spare the SGC and Earth from being destroyed by the black hole's gravity well, which had been transmitted through the gate. After Cromwell had fallen into the wormhole, O'Neill finished arming the bomb, and Teal'c managed to pull him to safety before it detonated. The wormhole had jumped from P3W-451 to P2A-870, whereupon General Hammond had immediately ordered the gate shut down.

Only a few moments later, of course, the gate had been reactivated by an incoming wormhole as the the SG teams stuck off-world and out of contact while the SGC had been incapacitated by the gravity well's time dilation effect began returning home. SG-6, with Daniel Jackson in tow, had been the second to arrive, returning from an archaeological dig on P3X-808. Upon being brought up to date regarding what had occurred in his absence, Daniel's first question had been, "How is Jack?" His sixteenth, nearly a day later, was, "So, has anyone gone to P2A-870 to look for Colonel Cromwell?"

 _That_ was the one that had stopped them all cold. Everyone, including Carter, had just assumed Cromwell to be lost, victim to either the crushing pressure of the gravity well or the black hole itself. Not to mention the blast energies from the shaped charge that had detonated less than thirty seconds after his tumble into the gate's event horizon. But what if they were wrong?

The exchange had sent her back to her calculations for yet another all-nighter, and although there were still a lot of variables she hadn't been able to pin down, she now suspected the effects of time dilation on the internal properties of the wormhole meant there was an outside chance that Cromwell could have been still in transit when it skipped between Stargates. In that case, was it also possible that he had survived the journey to reach P2A-870 alive?

A hand closed gently upon her shoulder. Startled, Carter whirled to find Daniel behind her. Blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses surveyed her with an expression of concern. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were so lost in thought. I didn't mean to disturb you, Sam."

She shook her head, giving him a tired smile. "It's okay, Daniel. If I stand here any longer, I'll start to put down roots. Want to go get a cup of coffee? I could use a walk."

"Sure."

They found an empty table in a far corner of the commissary, and settled down with steaming cups. Carter turned hers around and around between her hands. "Have you seen the Colonel today?"

Daniel looked up from stirring his cup. "I thought he was still in the infirmary."

"No, Janet told me last night that she was releasing him. I think he was probably starting to drive her crazy. You know how he hates to be stuck in one of those beds."

The archaeologist shook his head. "That's Jack for you. He probably went home to decompress and de-stress, maybe try to get some sleep in his own bed. It's what I would have done after almost getting killed."

"Don't remind me of that." She stared into the depths of her coffee. "I don't know how I'd have lived with myself if he had been, considering it was my idea that had him rappelling into that gravity well with a bomb in the first place."

"Sam, it isn't like you had a choice. What you came up with was brilliant, from everything I've heard, and if it weren't for you — and for Jack — we wouldn't even be able to have this conversation."

Carter sighed. "Thanks, Daniel. I'm just glad Teal'c was able to pull him back in time."

The archaeologist fixed her with a penetrating look. "Okay, this is probably going to sound weird, especially coming from me, but have you gotten any sleep since all of this happened?"

"A little."

" _How_ little?"

She was busted, and she knew it. "I slept for almost eight hours after Janet told us the Colonel would be okay."

"Mmm-hmm. And that was two days ago."

"Daniel, I had work to do."

"I understand wanting to catch up on things while we're on stand-down, but honestly — "

She interrupted him. "I've been doing some calculations, and it looks like there's at least a chance Colonel Cromwell could have survived. A slim one, but it's a chance all the same."

His eyes went wide. "Does the General know?"

"Not yet. I mean, I only just finished figuring it out myself about half an hour ago. And General Hammond's been tied up with preparations for the memorial service, so I haven't had a chance to tell him yet."

"Tell what to whom?" The deep voice accompanied the arrival of Teal'c at their table.

"Sam was just telling me that Colonel Cromwell might still be alive, on P2A-870."

"Indeed. And you have not yet shared this information with General Hammond." Not an affirmation; rather, a question, Teal'c-style.

"I haven't had a chance," replied Carter.

"Well, to be fair, Teal'c, she did just figure it out now."

"Actually, I went looking for the General, but couldn't find him either in his office or in the Control Room. That's where Daniel found me, just a few minutes ago."

"I see." The Jaffa warrior pulled out a chair and joined them. "O'Neill will want to command the rescue mission."

Carter massaged the space between her eyes. "There's something else. I — I think there used to be some bad blood between him and Colonel Cromwell."

That earned her _two_ wide-eyed stares. Horrified, she realized the potential implication of what she had just said. "No! No! I wasn't suggesting Colonel O'Neill would ever deliberately — "

"Not in a million years — "

"O'Neill would not — "

They realized they were all talking at once. She went on, "What I meant to say was that Colonel O'Neill and Colonel Cromwell seemed to have had a history together, and it wasn't a good one. But I also got the impression that something changed while they were getting ready to set that bomb."

"That would explain the look on O'Neill's face after Colonel Cromwell disappeared into the wormhole." Teal'c finished her thought. Their CO's expression had been one of complete anguish, made all the more horrific by their seeing it in slow-motion as he had still been deep in the high-gee zone near the Stargate at the time.

Daniel, having been off-world during all of this, was clearly at a loss. "Would one of you like to explain to me exactly what we're talking about here? Sam?"

"When I first encountered Colonel Cromwell, he was in the Control Room. Colonel O'Neill introduced us. He said that Cromwell was here to rescue us, but then added, 'don't count on it'. The way he said it just sounded odd. Bitter. General Hammond showed up about a minute later, ordered the evacuation of the base and asked for two volunteers to stay behind to set the auto-destruct. The Colonel — Colonel O'Neill, I mean — volunteered. So did Colonel Cromwell. O'Neill didn't seem happy about that at all, and asked for another volunteer. No one came forward, and Cromwell told him it looked like O'Neill was stuck with him. I didn't quite catch what Colonel O'Neill said after that, but he was clearly unhappy about it."

"Most unusual," Teal'c observed.

"Also, I talked to Janet later on, and she mentioned that when she was being... escorted through the base by Colonel Cromwell and his men, and encountered Colonel O'Neill, he confirmed that he knew Cromwell. She got the same feeling I did, that there was animosity between them."

Daniel drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Do you think Jack's told her anything more?"

"If he has, I doubt she'd tell me. Patient confidentiality and all that. But if I had to guess, I'd say she doesn't know any more about it more than I do."

Teal'c picked up the narrative. "After Captain Carter convinced General Hammond that allowing the base to self-destruct would be ineffective in shutting down the wormhole and averting the destruction of Earth by the black hole's gravity, she devised the plan to detonate the shaped charge in proximity to the Stargate. Colonel Cromwell and O'Neill worked together to set the charge. At this point, they seemed to be working well together as a team and I detected no animosity between them. After the secondary windows of the Control Room shattered, injuring both men and causing them to slip farther down their ropes than anticipated, Colonel Cromwell appeared to be attempting to aid O'Neill in re-ascending the line. When Colonel Cromwell's line broke, he caught and held onto O'Neill's harness momentarily before falling into the wormhole. I distinctly saw O'Neill try to catch him as he fell, and I saw O'Neill's face when he was unsuccessful."

Carter pushed her empty cup away. "Daniel, he looked like a man who'd just seen his best friend die."

 

***

 

Colonel Jack O'Neill sat on his couch, absently flipping through television channels. A bottle of beer, barely touched from the night before, had sweated a pool of condensation into its coaster on the coffee table before him. His body still ached from the abuse it had taken first in fighting, then being released from, the gravity field in the Gate room, but the past two days of rest and recovery had dulled the pain to a background level. The cuts on his neck and arms and the burns on his shoulders itched as they healed. He resisted the urge to scratch. Scratching was bad. He knew he was extraordinarily lucky, and was grateful to be both alive and on a world that wasn't going to disappear down a the maw of a black hole. Carter's genius had saved them; if ever there were a woman who deserved a medal, it was her. And probably Dr. Fraiser, too, just for having put up with him for the past forty-eight hours or so. O'Neill knew he was never a model patient even in the best of times. And this was most definitely not the best of times.

There was another pain, an even deeper ache that nothing Janet Fraiser could do would treat. _Dammit, Frank. You were right. It's hard as hell knowing you left someone behind in the field. Boyd and his team. And now you. It's almost as hard as being the one who was left._ Which, he supposed, described both of them now, each in their own way. Henry Boyd and SG-10 had been left behind on P3W-451, simply because there was no way to retrieve them. Jack knew he would carry that memory with him for the rest of his days, just as he carried the memory of his son's death, Sara's leaving, Kawalsky's death. Just as he finally understood Frank Cromwell had carried the knowledge that he had left O'Neill behind in Iraq. Now Frank was dead, and O'Neill was left behind. Again.

The ringing of the phone interrupted his thoughts. He reached for the handset, groaning a bit as sore muscles and still-healing skin protested the motion. "O'Neill." A pause. "Yes, sir. I'm fine, sir." Another pause, longer this time. "I see, sir. Yes, I'll be there." A final pause. "Yes, thank you, sir. Goodbye, sir."

 _Ah well, time to get up, grab a shower, and get moving._ If he sat there much longer, he'd start getting all maudlin or something. There would be plenty of opportunity for that later on, after the memorial service. Damn, he hated these things. Hated the necessity, mostly. The sad fact of military life was that sometimes good people died. But he didn't have to like it, and never would be comfortable with it. And perhaps, as long as he railed against it — at least on the inside — the memory of those good folks would burn just that much brighter. He hoped so, at least. Be a shame to expend all that energy for nothing. Not that he could stop himself if he tried.

 _Gah. Shower. Now._ He had gotten his dress blues cleaned last month, hadn't he? _Damn..._


	3. The Gulf Between Friends

_There is nothing more dreadful than the habit of doubt. Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills._ — Lord Buddha

 

General Hammond replaced the receiver in its cradle. Colonel O'Neill sounded all right, if a bit tired. Doctor Fraiser had likely made the right decision in sending him home to finish recuperating in his own house, rather than keeping him in the base infirmary. But it was only proper for him to be in attendance at the memorial service honoring SG-10. Frankly, Hammond wanted O'Neill back on base sooner rather than later in any event. He wanted to make sure that if there were any lingering issues related to O'Neill's brief reunion with and subsequent loss of Frank Cromwell, his former teammate and onetime friend, they were dealt with as swiftly as possible. Hammond had been well aware of the history between the two colonels. He'd been mildly surprised a few months back to find Cromwell listed as CO of one of the Special Operations teams the Pentagon had assigned as a secondary line of defense to safeguard Earth against potential threats that could materialize from within the SGC. He remembered thinking at the time that it was ironic for Cromwell to be stationed in such close proximity to his former friend, especially given the nature of that particular duty assignment. Surely he had been made aware of O'Neill's presence at the SGC once he was briefed. Hammond found he could imagine all too well Cromwell's reaction to that knowledge.

He had first met the man three years previously, in Chicago's O'Hare International Airport, when both of them had been stranded for several hours while a blizzard pounded the midwest, grounding flights and upending Hammond's plans to visit his eldest daughter and her family in Colorado Springs. Hammond had briefly been at Bolling AFB in Washington, DC to coordinate information between USAF HQ and the Pentagon regarding some sensitive projects, an endeavor that left him wanting a breather before he returned to his normal duties. For some reason, he'd found, dealing with the Pentagon tended to do that to a man. Taking some long-overdue leave, he'd booked a flight to Colorado, but what was supposed to have been a ninety-minute layover at O'Hare had turned into eight hours of frustrated waiting. Fortunately, about four hours into the delay, he'd found himself in the company of one Colonel Frank Cromwell, USAF Special Operations, who was just as stranded, frustrated and bored as the the general. Cromwell was bound for temporary duty at Nellis, where he was to offer his expertise in a training exercise. As two military men in an overwhelmingly civilian crowd, the two naturally fell into conversation despite Cromwell's rather guarded demeanor. Over a steak dinner in one of the airport restaurants, the two men had shared stories. Eventually, the conversation touched upon the time each had spent in-theater during the Gulf War.

"So, how long were you over there before you got back stateside?" Hammond asked.

"Too long... ah hell, make that not long enough."

The older man cocked his head.. "That's probably the first time I've heard anyone give that answer."

A shadow passed over the colonel's features. "Let's just say my team's last mission over there was a real Charlie Foxtrot. Sir."

The general knew that shadowed look all too well. He'd seen it in the mirror enough times after that fateful sortie in Vietnam. "You lost someone." It was both a statement and a question.

"Yeah. You could say that."

Hammond said nothing, just waited quietly to see if the other man felt like talking about it. They both knew the score, that you didn't always get to bring everyone back alive. Sometimes it helped to talk with someone else who'd been there. Sometimes it didn't do a damn bit of good, either.

The colonel must have felt some need to fill the silence. "My best buddy. We'd served together for twelve years. I saw him go down right before I took two in the shoulder."

"Damned hard thing to have happen, Colonel. I went through it, too. My best friend was shot down over 'Nam. I saw him bail out, saw his 'chute open. Knew he was alive, and radioed his position. But I never saw him again. His name never turned up on the POW lists, and they never found his body."

Cromwell shook his head slowly, staring at his plate. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir," he said sincerely.

"On the other hand, you were fortunate enough to survive, and at least some of your team must have made it. Were they at least able to recover his — " Hammond didn't get to finish the question, as Cromwell interrupted him with a snort, meeting his eyes again, his own glittering with something fierce and hot. Instinctively, Hammond realized that whatever the emotion was, it was directed entirely inward.

"Oh, it gets worse, sir. We lost our CO in the first moment of engagement. Jack was 2IC, so that left him in charge. I was the next man down the chain... When Jack went down, I was sure he was dead. Would've sworn to it. And we were pinned down — well, almost — we had one shot at extraction and it was now or never. We were out of options. So I gave the order. I gave the friggin' order: get up, get out, leave the dead behind." He coughed, took a sip from his water glass. "Jesus."

"It doesn't really sound like you had any choice, Colonel. Like you said, you were out of options. You had to get your team out. You had a duty to the living." Hammond wondered if he were missing something here. This man had to know there was nothing he could have done differently that would have helped. He watched as Cromwell shook his head in irritation.

"The hell of it is, I did let one of them down. They sent me back stateside to recover. And Jack, my best friend, who was like a brother to me, spent the next four months being tortured in a friggin' Iraqi prison. Because I'd left him behind." Another snort. "I didn't even find out for two whole months that he was alive. It was that long before his name turned up on the POW list. Here I'd come home, had to tell his wife and his kid that he was gone and that I hadn't even been able to get his body back, and then I found myself having to explain why the man they loved, that we all loved, was in some stinking cell on the other side of the world."

 _Damn._ The pieces fell into place; that glittering heat he'd seen in the younger man's eyes suddenly made sense. Had this man gotten no counseling, no treatment for the emotional injuries he'd suffered in addition to his physical wounds? And what about his friend, this Jack? How had he fared?

Across the table, Cromwell visibly gathered himself, stuffing the rage and the pain back into a mental box and clamping down the lid. "And before you ask," the colonel continued in a much more subdued voice, "I did try to get him out. Once I knew what had happened, I had a rescue mission all mapped out. It got turned down." He gave a bitter chuckle. "Of course, now the Air Force wants me to help cross-train combat search and rescue specialists. How's that for irony?"

"Oh, I'll agree it's ironic. That's something the service seems to do very well at times." It was true, Hammond knew. He hadn't been in the Air Force for three decades without noticing the military's penchant for putting people in situations that would make any sane man scratch his head and wonder. Of course, over the years he'd also seen that sometimes doing so turned out to be exactly the right thing, because it put the right person in the right place at the right time, even if on first glance that might seem counterintuitive.

"I guess though, seeing as I couldn't get Jack out, I can sure as hell do something so that some other guy doesn't get stuck." Cromwell lined up his knife and fork side by side on his empty plate as he spoke. "You know, I went to see him once in the hospital, right after he got back. Tried to apologize, though God knows there was no reason for that to make any difference. But I had to try anyway." He wadded his napkin into a tight ball and tossed it onto the plate. It struck the silverware, bumping the two utensils askew and coming to rest between them. "I was right, too: it didn't make a damn bit of difference. He didn't want to talk to me, wanted nothing to do with me. I left my best friend in Iraq, and the guy who came back in his place can't stand me. And you know what? I can't say I blame him."

"I'm sorry." Hammond remembered thinking the words sounded hollow, even as he'd spoken them. He'd simply had no idea what else to say. He'd felt bad for both men that night, the one he'd met and the one he hadn't.

Six months later, he'd accepted command of the Top Secret Area 52 complex deep within Cheyenne Mountain, figuring it would be an easy final assignment prior to retiring from the Air Force. Aside from a bit of deja-vu at being in the same facility where he'd served nearly thirty years before, he'd expected an uneventful time of it. His work was simply to oversee closing down Project Giza and mothballing the dusty piece of alien technology housed deep in the facility's bowels. (Although there was that occasional twinge of memory involving a note he'd received the first time he'd been assigned there, in his own handwriting despite his having no memory of writing it...)

Then came the day a bunch of thugs in serpent-headed armor arrived through that dusty piece of alien technology and blew his plans for retirement all to hell.

When he first read through O'Neill's personnel file, prior to calling him in for questioning regarding his report on the Abydos mission, Hammond noted that the Colonel had spent four months in Iraq as a POW. He wouldn't have given it much thought, except that the report included a brief explanation of how the man had come to be captured. While on covert maneuvers, O'Neill's unit had been ambushed. He had been wounded in the ensuing firefight and presumed dead, resulting in the extraction of his team without him. Two sentences in a personnel file that brought back a conversation in an airport restaurant, with a man who'd lost a longstanding friendship to a mission gone horribly, tragically wrong. What was the name of the man they'd discussed? Jack something. Odds were good this was the same guy. A chill crept up the General's spine. He didn't like coincidences.

He didn't get a chance to address the question until the dust had settled from the second Abydos mission and its aftermath. When Hammond was putting together the primary SG teams, he knew that it made sense to get to know his personnel, beyond just what was in their files and what he'd seen so far of their performance. Under his command, they were to be on the front line of Earth's interaction with extraterrestrial beings, and he needed to know exactly what sort of people he had working for him. He set aside time to speak with every member of each of the nine teams, one on one. His interview with O'Neill covered every other piece of ground before touching on the circumstances of O'Neill's capture and imprisonment by the Iraqis.

"Colonel O'Neill, according to your personnel file, you went on a covert mission into enemy territory during the Gulf, and were captured."

"Yeah. Does it also say there that our CO had been killed, I was wounded at the time and that the next guy down the chain abandoned me?" O'Neill's voice was several shades beyond bitter.

"Colonel, I understand that in the heat of battle, you were presumed dead. With the mission a failure, it would have fallen to him to get the rest of the team to safety if at all possible." Hammond paused. "I do understand, however, that knowing this doesn't change what you went through."

O'Neill gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles slowly turning white with the effort to remain calm. "No, sir, it doesn't. I watched him — watched them — get on that helicopter and fly away. Shortly after that, the Iraqis came and carted me off to prison. I lost four months of my life there, never knowing from one day to the next whether I would live or die, whether I would see my wife and son again. Let's just say that I find it a bit difficult to be understanding."

"You were friends." Hammond didn't need to elaborate.

O'Neill fixed him with an icy stare. "The operative word there is 'were'. We were friends, or at least I'd always thought so. But friends don't leave friends behind in the field. I don't leave people behind, sir. Never have, never will. Are we done talking about this?"

"Colonel, I have no desire to reopen old wounds. I'm just trying to get a feel for the people in this command."

"Well, sir, I think you know where I stand on things like this. My record speaks for itself. I don't need to remind you — "

The older man held up a hand to forestall the litany he knew was coming. "I am well aware of your record, Colonel. I just want you to bear in mind that at some point, you may well find yourself in a position where getting everyone out with you is not an option. If and when that situation occurs — and I hope as much as you do that it does not — but in such a situation, I need to know that you will do the prudent thing. Do I make myself clear?"

There was no telling what thoughts went on behind that fathomless brown gaze, but the brittle tone of the response spoke volumes. "Crystal, sir."

Hammond shook his head as if to clear the memory. Oh, he'd known even then that if O'Neill were ruled by prudence, he'd have never gone through the Stargate once, let alone multiple times. Most likely he'd never even have been in Special Ops, which meant he'd have never been involved in any of this in the first place, nor been on that mission in Iraq, for that matter.

He thought again of Colonel Cromwell. As the CO of one of the Special Ops 'secondary defense' teams, he had been stationed at Peterson AFB and would have been told just enough about the Stargate program to know what they might conceivably be up against should they ever be called into action at the mountain. That information would have included the identities of the SGC's senior command personnel. Was it at all possible that Cromwell had been somehow aware of O'Neill's presence even before that, however? The more the General thought about it, the less doubt he had that Cromwell had kept tabs on his friend, as much as was possible anyway, and had requested this assignment. Curiosity about what O'Neill was doing, perhaps? Some desire to atone for past sins by putting himself in a position to look out for him, should it ever be necessary to do so? Hammond couldn't answer that question. But whatever Cromwell's motivation, it had cost him his life. He suspected that Cromwell's presence in the SCG during the recent crisis, and the need for O'Neill to work with him to resolve it, might have had some effect on O'Neill as well, especially given the outcome.

A knock on the door snapped Hammond out of his reflections. "Come!"

Captain Carter entered, flanked by Dr. Jackson and Teal'c. Hammond noticed dark circles under Carter's eyes, as if she hadn't slept in days. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but when I came looking for you earlier, you weren't in," she began.

He indicated the chairs in front of his desk. "Please, sit down. I've been in and out of my office all morning. What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir," said Carter, "I've been running some calculations, and it appears the internal geometry of the wormhole may have been affected differently from what we first assumed would happen when we sent that shaped charge into it."

"Affected how, Captain? The wormhole did jump from P3W-451 to P2A-870, didn't it? I was under the impression that if it hadn't, we would never have been able to shut it down."

"Yes, sir. Where I may have erred is in assuming that anything falling into the wormhole prior to the charge's detonation either exited on P3W-451 or was destroyed by the blast. The simulations I've put together indicate that the explosion would not only have caused the wormhole to jump to another gate, but also could have propagated the bomb's energy throughout its entire length." She paused as if to order her thoughts.

Hammond leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his desk. "Go on," he invited.

"Well, sir, given that the wormhole was not only channeling the black hole's gravity but was also under the influence of the time dilation caused by that gravity field, the transit time of anything within the wormhole would have been affected as well. Both matter and energy would be subject to these effects. The preliminary model I've put together appears to show the wormhole absorbing almost the entire energy output of the bomb. In fact, that could explain what caused it to jump between two gates as widely separated as P3W-451 and P2A-870 are in real space. It didn't take anywhere near that much energy to cause a jump between our gate and the one in the Antarctic, that time that Colonel O'Neill and I were stranded. But those gates were on the same planet. The jump we deliberately manufactured involved over ninety lightyears, sir."

Hammond could feel a headache beginning just above his eye sockets. He did his best to understand the science involved in what they were all doing here, but the intricacies of wormhole physics were beyond him even on the best of days. Clearly, Carter was leading up to something with her explanation, but he'd be damned if he could figure out what it was. "Captain, what exactly is it you're trying to tell me?"

She looked momentarily abashed. "I'm sorry, sir. What I'm getting at is that there is a chance that Colonel Cromwell may have still been in transit at the time the wormhole jumped between gates. If so, then it's possible he survived the trip. He could be on P2A-870 right now."


	4. Exploration

_You pilot always into an unknown future; facts are your single clue._ — Lazarus Long (R.A. Heinlein, _The Notebooks of Lazarus Long)_

 

The trail wound through green woodlands, at one point crossing a stream by the means of a stone footbridge. From the look of the foliage, it was high summer here. Cromwell suspected it might get quite warm before the day was over. He hiked along, keeping his senses tuned for any sign that he might be followed or watched. He'd taken up a long, thick branch for both a walking stick and weapon, since he had fallen through the gate unarmed. He'd rather have had his sidearm, but would have to make do with his hand-to-hand skills if he ran into trouble.

He noticed that the forest had many plants that were indistinguishable from plants on Earth, interspersed with others he had never seen before. It was a puzzling mixture, one he couldn't make head nor tail of. As far as he knew, the stargate on Earth had only been in operation for a handful of years, yet here were oak trees that must easily be decades or even centuries old, growing on a planet that had to be light-years from Earth.

Cromwell was no scientist, but he understood science well enough. Since boyhood, he'd been interested in science fiction, and also intensely curious about how the real world worked. Two different angles of approach led him to an appreciation, if not perhaps always a full understanding, of the physical universe he inhabited. As an adult, he'd maintained subscriptions to magazines like _Scientific American_ , _Omni_ and _Discover_. He figured he understood maybe three-fourths of what they printed, but suspected that was still better than a lot of people managed. And everything he'd ever read said that convergent evolution of the sort that would faithfully replicate an oak tree on an alien world was baloney, so how in the hell had plants from Earth wound up on whatever planet this was? Something didn't add up. Oh, he fully believed he was on another world. His Top-Secret briefings confirmed that the Stargate program put Earth in contact with extraterrestrial worlds and made physical travel between them possible. He knew the Air Force might not have shown him all the cards; however, even after years of estrangement, he had absolute faith in Jack O'Neill. Jack wouldn't have lied to him about the reality of travel to alien planets. Besides, there was that strange sky last night. Ergo, this was an alien world. But Cromwell could see that obviously there was a lot more to the story than he'd been told.

A sound from up ahead made him pause. A moment later, it came again: a high-pitched whistle not unlike those that he and his boyhood friends had used to signal each other while playing in the woods behind his grandmother's house in the hills of northern Pennsylvania, during those summer vacations when he would spend several weeks visiting. He scanned the area, looking for movement or for outlines different from the shapes and colors of the woodland itself. There, half-hidden behind the bole of a tree about thirty yards distant on the other side of a shallow, slow-moving river, was a human-sized figure clad in dusky blue. Assuming that he — or she — was the source of the whistle he had heard, there had to be at least one companion in the area, since the whistle was most likely a signal. He turned slowly, beginning a 360-degree visual sweep. Another figure, this one in yellow, occupied a position about fifteen feet off the ground in a tree several yards from the first. It was hard to tell from this distance, but they appeared human. Damn, what he wouldn't have given for a set of binoculars. _Note to self: next time you're gonna be stranded offworld, Cromwell, you need to pack better._

Well, he'd planned to investigate whether this world was inhabited. Moving more slowly than before, he continued along the path he'd been traveling. The trail widened a bit at this point, leading to the water's edge, where a well-built wooden bridge spanned the flow, connecting this portion of the trail to another that disappeared into the woods on the other side. He estimated he had traveled about a mile and a half from the Stargate. The bridge likely meant there was a settlement of some sort not far ahead. The ill-concealed figures on the opposite shore of the shallow river could be anything from sentries to local youths playing hide-and-seek. They had almost certainly seen him, so in short order the local population would be aware of his presence. It was time to meet the natives.

Tightening his grip on his makeshift staff and squaring his shoulders, he set out across the bridge. Up ahead, the two figures detached themselves from the trees and approached their side of the bridge to take up places at its corner posts. Roughly fifteen feet from the far end of the bridge, Cromwell paused to study them. The one in blue was the taller of the two by about six inches, apparently male, and clad in a homespun tunic and gray trousers, his feet shod in leather shoes. His companion was female, wearing a slightly longer tunic of sunny yellow over similar trousers and shoes. Both appeared utterly human, with fair complexions and sandy hair, which the female wore in a plait falling over one shoulder. They looked to be in their mid-teens, and regarded his approach with expressions that seemed to indicate a mixture of curiosity and mild apprehension. He took another step forward, holding his staff in his left hand, his right hand held away from his body, palm open to show that it was empty. The girl glanced at her companion, and together they sketched a slight bow, ducking their heads and looking at the ground before straightening and meeting his gaze.

Suddenly, a voice rang out sharply from behind them. The teens turned as a woman emerged around a bend in the path and stopped to stare at the stranger on the bridge. Appearing to be in her early to mid-thirties, she was dressed similarly to the younger two, her tunic a dusty rose color and of a somewhat fuller cut, belted with a colorful cord. Her brown hair hung loose in waves to her shoulders, and she carried a basket. She spoke to the teenaged pair in a questioning tone, gesturing with her chin toward Cromwell, and they responded with a flurry of speech and hand gestures, apparently outlining his approach from the woods and their sighting of him on the trail. Cromwell, being no linguist, couldn't place the language they were speaking but he also couldn't shake the impression that it sounded like something he ought to be able to follow. Maybe it was the addition of the hand gestures, which lent just enough meaning that the speech played tricks on his mind. He knew the human brain attempted to engage in pattern-matching, even when it had no real referents for the information it took in.

The woman approached the end of the bridge, watching him intently. Slowly, Cromwell took another step toward her, watching as she ran her eyes up and down his figure, taking in his appearance, what was probably to her surely some odd garb, and also noting his apparent lack of weaponry beyond the staff he carried.

As he watched, she appeared to come to a decision. Her expression softened, even showing the guarded hint of a smile, and she too bowed her head slightly, as she gestured in what was clearly a greeting, beckoning him to join them on the creek bank. He did so, inclining his own head slightly in what he hoped would pass for an appropriate greeting among these people. She spoke again, the words seeming to dance just beyond his comprehension. There were no accompanying gestures this time, and yet his brain still insisted that he should be able to grasp what she'd said. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Here was another piece in an increasingly convoluted puzzle. He had been flung light-years from Earth, arriving on an alien world orbiting another star, to find not only familiar flora, but people who appeared to be as human as himself speaking a language he felt himself on the verge of understanding.

A flash of memory brought to mind his grandmother. Lydia Eynon Cromwell had been born and raised in Wales, coming to the United States as a young woman after the First World War. She spoke Welsh as well as English, and had taken great pride in seeing to it that her children and grandchildren learned to speak at least a modicum of their ancestral tongue. His childhood self had found it fascinating enough to learn more than a little. While this language was not itself Welsh, he realized, its sounds and patterns were similar enough that his brain kept trying to fit them to that framework, and it was this that gave him the feeling that he ought to understand them.

While turning this revelation over in his mind, he allowed himself to be led along the trail through another short patch of woods and into a clearing. What he saw there gave him pause. A wall of timber and stone rose ten feet high, surmounted by a walkway upon which people moved about. A wide gate in the wall showed what appeared to be a village square, surrounded by homes and workshops. His guides led him through the gate and into the village, to a table beneath a thatched awning, where he was urged to a seat on a wooden bench while the woman gabbled to the teen girl in not-Welsh and the girl brought him a mug of something cool that smelled of sweetness with a mild tang of alcohol. Warily, he took a small sip. It turned out to be fermented cider. He raised his eyes above the rim of the cup to see the girl peering at him anxiously. He gave her a smile, which she returned shyly. There was a nudge at his elbow and he turned to see the older woman placing a plate of bread on the table before him. Okay, so clearly food and drink were not going to be a problem, at least for the moment.

While all of this was going on, the boy took a seat on the other side of the table, then suddenly rose again and waved, calling to someone across the square. Cromwell looked to see three men approaching. They looked to be around his own age, and carried themselves like soldiers. As they arrived beside his seat, Cromwell began to rise. The man in the middle smiled and waved him back into his seat, then pulled up a neighboring bench and seated himself, flanked by his companions. He spoke something akin to the same greeting that the woman had spoken at the bridge, then followed with what was, from its inflection, a question. Cromwell could only shake his head and shrug, trying frantically to parse what his mind still insisted ought to be intelligible speech. The other man frowned slightly, and spoke again. This time, the sounds were somewhat different. Another language, something other than the not-Welsh this time?

Cromwell was at a loss. He'd known communications would be a problem, but hoped he could solve it. He decided to take a chance.

"Fy enw i yw Frank," he began. "Nid wyf yn siwr fy mod yn deall chi." _My name is Frank. I am not sure I understand you._

He watched as the three men took on puzzled expressions, and suspected they were now sharing the same feeling he'd had since he first heard the teenagers speaking at the bridge. Well, it was a start.


	5. You Have A Go

Hammond stared across his desk at the three members of SG-1 occupying his visitor chairs. "Would you mind repeating that, Captain Carter?"

"Sir, there is reason to believe that Colonel Cromwell may not have exited the wormhole until after it jumped to P2A-870. Someone should go and look for him."

"I've suspended all outbound gate travel until our technicians have thoroughly checked out the gate on this end. Our equipment took one hell of a beating from that gravity field. Sergeant Siler and a team are working on it now." The general held up a hand to forestall the protest he knew was coming, but to no avail, as Daniel half-rose from his chair.

"General, there have been teams returning from offworld since disconnecting from P3W-451. The gate is working just fine. I should know, because if it weren't, I wouldn't be here right now."

"Son, just because it's working properly for incoming wormholes, that's no guarantee that it will properly generate outgoing ones. Or so a certain Captain has told me in the past." Hammond eyed Carter.

"Of course, sir," she responded. "But Colonel Cromwell could be injured, especially given the circumstances and the way he entered the gate. He went feet-first and at a high rate of speed. So just as soon as the gate checks out, we need to get a team to P2A-870 to look for him."

"We will, Captain. We will. But I'm not willing to sacrifice any member of this command by sending them through a possibly faulty gate."

Teal'c spoke up. "General Hammond, Colonel Cromwell was willing to sacrifice himself to save this world. He showed himself to be a brave warrior. I would like to go with whichever team is sent to attempt his rescue."

"So would I," added Carter.

"I'll take that under advisement. But Captain Carter, do me a favor? Try to get some rest between now and the time the gate calibration and tests are finished. Siler estimates that will be around 13:30, just before the memorial service for SG-10. You have quarters here on base; use them."

She nodded, knowing that his words were really a thinly-veiled order. "Yes, sir. I'll try, sir." At his frown, she amended her response. "On my way, sir."

"I assume you have dress blues on base, for the memorial? Or shall I send someone to your home to retrieve them for you?"

Daniel spoke up before Sam could say anything. "I'll go get them, Sam." She gave him a grateful look.

Hammond watched as the trio rose and left his office. He hadn't shown it during the discussion, but he chafed every bit as much as they did over the need to wait. He felt the urge himself to get a team out there looking for Cromwell. But the SGC had already lost one entire team in this disaster, and morale was going to be awful for weeks. He wasn't about to take any chances on losing even more personnel. Boyd had been well-liked by virtually everyone on base, and the same went for the other members of SG-10. While it was true that they owed it to Colonel Cromwell to mount a rescue mission ASAP, in this case ASAP meant as soon as the gate was tested and declared safe. _Hold on, Colonel,_ he thought. _You won't be left out there for a moment longer than can be helped._

O'Neill arrived on base an hour before the memorial service was scheduled to begin, and retreated immediately to his office. He wanted to say a few words about Henry Boyd at the service, but was having trouble getting them organized in his mind, let alone down on paper. Eloquence was not really among his strongest talents, he felt, but surely a man ought to be able to put together something meaningful for a comrade and friend lost in the line of duty. Maybe it was a combination of losing Boyd, being injured himself, and losing Frank that was messing with his mind. _Sure, youbetcha._ Well, whatever it was, here in the businesslike confines of his office perhaps he'd find it easier to do his own duty toward the man he had personally helped to propel into the very command which got him killed.

He debated closing his office door while he worked, but decided to leave it open. Much as he might need to minimize distractions right now, he'd also had enough of feeling isolated for one day. He settled for hoping that people would just leave him alone long enough to do what he needed to do, without his having to actively shut them out of his workspace. However, just as he seated himself at his computer and began to type, someone knocked on the doorframe. "I'm busy!" he snapped, without looking up. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he regretted them, as the next voice he heard was Daniel's. While the archaeologist could be annoying at times, when it came right down to it O'Neill was fond of him, considered him a close friend, and had no desire to be mean to him. _That's no way to treat a friend, O'Neill, and you know better._

"Uh, Jack? I'm sorry to bother you. I only need a moment."

"Come on in." Sighing, he swiveled his chair away from the desk. "I, ah, didn't mean to bark at you like that."

"It's all right. You've been through a lot lately."

"It's no excuse, Daniel. What did you need?"

"Oh, actually, I came to tell you something."

"Please make it something good." O'Neill didn't think he could handle another crisis or piece of bad news just now.

"Well, yeah, it might be."

The colonel fidgeted impatiently. "Well? Don't keep me in suspense."

Daniel's eyes took on that earnest look he got whenever he was about to launch into the long version of whatever it was that he wanted to say. O'Neill groaned inwardly. "Make it the Cliff's Notes, please? There's still the small matter of a eulogy I haven't finished writing." He watched the younger man's expression change: eyebrows up, mouth closing again, a slight nod.

"Uh, right. Well, I've been talking to Sam, and she's done some calculations..." He sped up as the colonel gestured for him to cut to the chase. "Sam thinks that Colonel Cromwell might've survived after all, and made it to P2A-870 but nobody's gone there to look for him yet because General Hammond suspended all outgoing gate travel until after all the repairs check out on this end but — hey, where are you going?" he finished as O'Neill rushed past him and out of the office, pelting at a dead run down the corridor. With a shrug, Daniel headed off in pursuit of his team leader.

O'Neill found Hammond in the Control Room, overseeing the final phase of testing the gate systems. The general turned from the window at the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairway. The colonel was speaking before he had even completely entered the room, the archaeologist hot on his heels.

"Sir, let's get this show on the road. SG-1 will take the rescue mission."

"Stand down, Colonel. No one is going through this gate until it checks out one hundred percent. We've already lost SG-10. I'll not risk losing any more personnel at this moment."

O'Neill gaped at him. "With all due respect, we're risking Cromwell's life if we wait. We don't even know what kind of conditions there are on P2A-eight-something-whatever. Isn't that the world SG-4 tried to recon last month and only went long enough to retrieve the MALP after it found a raging blizzard? You want to leave a man, possibly an injured man, to freeze to death?"

"Colonel O'Neill. It's been two days since the wormhole contacted that planet. I'm sorry to say this, but if Colonel Cromwell arrived there injured into a blizzard, he is most likely dead by now. If not, then after two days' time, assuming he hasn't run into hostiles, his condition and situation are likely to be such that one hour won't make a difference either way in his survival."

"One hour, sir?"

Hammond nodded. "That's how long the remaining tests and calibration are estimated to take. I am not an unreasonable man, Colonel. Given that preliminary tests went smoothly, I've postponed the memorial for SG-10 and given the rescue mission priority. I want you to report to Dr. Fraiser and be examined. Assuming she clears you for duty involving gate travel, you and SG-1 have a 'Go' to visit P2A-870 and attempt to locate and rescue Colonel Cromwell."

"And assuming he has run into hostiles?"

The General gave him a wolfish half-grin. "I suggest you arm yourselves fully for that eventuality and be prepared to give them a fight. I'm sending SG-5 with you for backup." Hammond motioned O'Neill forward, gesturing with his other hand toward the window and the gate room below, where a MALP was being readied off to the side of the ramp. "You'll have some recon before you enter the gate."

"I see." Pause. "Thank you, sir."

Hammond nodded. "I don't want to leave him out there any longer than you do, Colonel. Go see Dr. Fraiser, and then prep your team. Dismissed."


	6. Revelations

_To have another language is to possess a second soul._ — Charlemagne

 

The shadows were lengthening, the surrounding forest painting the village with shade as the sun slid past the treetops and the day began its descent toward evening. Cromwell glanced at his watch, which insisted it was 1030 hours, Mountain Daylight Time. Nevertheless, given the time check he'd made at sunrise and the angle of the light at present, he guessed this planet had a rotational period not too far off Earth's own 24-hour cycle. _Might as well reset my watch to reflect the apparent local time,_ he mused, taking a sip from the mug of cooled herbal tea he'd been nursing. It tasted like mint, chamomile and honey, and more importantly, it soothed the hoarseness he was beginning to feel.

He'd been sitting at the same table for nearly eight hours, doing his best to breach the language barrier that separated him from the villagers. The first two hours had been spent with the leader of the three men he'd encountered earlier, whose name, he'd learned, was Nenniaw. They hadn't gotten much beyond names and a collection of simple words when a minor tumult arose near the same entryway where Cromwell had entered the village. The two teens he had first met by the creek — when had they disappeared? — led another man into the village and spoke hurriedly to one of Nenniaw's earlier companions, who in turn came to summon Nenniaw himself. Apparently, someone of importance had arrived.

Cromwell had stolen a glance at the newcomer and been mildly surprised to see someone sharing a rough approximation of his own general build, coloring and physical demeanor, although this man was clothed rather differently. He watched him interact with Nenniaw and the others, and got the distinct feeling that the new arrival was someone not necessarily known to them personally, but expected nonetheless. Was it possible that they had had only a cursory description of someone who was due to arrive, and his own welcome to the village was the result of mistaken identity?

Whatever the case, soon Nenniaw and his companions had spirited the other man away into a nearby house, and the brown-haired woman he had met at the bridge took over the language lesson. He learned that her name was Tesni, and despite the gravity of his situation and the difficulty in communication, he found her a delightful companion for conversation, limited as it was. She seemed to instinctively understand his difficulty with her language, and demonstrated a level of patience and humor that put him at ease enough to smooth the learning curve somewhat.

For the language spoken here was almost definitely a variation, albeit an exceedingly strange one, on the Welsh he had learned as a child. The biggest hurdle seemed to be vowel sounds: almost none of them were what he had been taught, but there was a pattern to the substitutions, and once he had managed to figure out that much and apply it, suddenly the greatest portion of the puzzle came together. For all that his rather unusual military career had resulted in his learning bits and pieces of several languages, Cromwell was assuredly no expert. But the same personal curiosity that had informed his reading habits over the years extended to the softer sciences, and he remembered a term from a _Discover_ article he'd read on linguistics some years earlier: chain shift. All languages change over time, it said, and one way in which they can change is by vowel shift. According to the article, when vowel substitution followed an internally consistent pattern wherein each vowel shifts to the one next to it in a sequence, that was a chain shift. Find the starting point, figure out the sequence, and it became easier to decipher the language in question. As far as he could tell using the scant knowledge he had, these people spoke something that resembled a rather bizarre, obscurely chain-shifted dialect of Welsh, with mutated consonants thrown in at random for good measure. But he was working his way through it, at least. _Welcome to the 'total immersion' method of language learning, I guess._

For perhaps the fiftieth time that day, he gave thanks to whatever agent of good fortune had moved his grandmother to insist on his learning her ancestral tongue, thereby giving him at least a rudimentary set of tools with which to approach his present problem. He shuddered to think how difficult this would have been had he not had that as a starting point. Stuck here alone and with no idea whether he would be able to go home, encountering people with whom he had at least enough common ground to communicate was a godsend, even if it did play merry hell with everything he thought he'd known about humans and space.

For her part, Tesni was learning his somewhat limited Welsh at the same time she was teaching him her own language. She was a quick study, and given the combination of their efforts, they were conversing on an elementary level by mid-afternoon, in a crude but effective mixture of both tongues. It turned out that the village was called Llanavon, meaning "river village", which would have also been a perfectly ordinary place name in the Welsh with which Cromwell was familiar. The pronunciation was slightly off compared to his grandmother's, but the name was at least recognizable. Tesni's name for her own people, meanwhile, sounded like 'Pridani'. _The people historians know as the_ Britenni, _perhaps?_ From what he could tell based on their conversation thus far, the inhabitants of Llanavon seemed aware that their world was one planet among many, and called it Tir Awyr, or "Land in the Sky". Since the only reasonable explanation for not only their apparent humanity but also their speaking a language related to Welsh would have to involve some link to Earth, he supposed it was an appropriate description of their world in relation to his own. He wondered exactly what the hell was going on here.

"Tesni, are the Pridani the only people living on Tir Awyr? Or are there other... I don't know... cultures? Tribes?"

"There are others. But mostly there are just ourselves and the Albannu."

Albannu? In his _Naina_ Cromwell's Welsh, that could only be the _Albanwyr_ : the Scots. Albannu. Pridani. Scots and Britons. _What the hell?_ He dropped his head to his hands, massaging his forehead, where an incipient tension headache was beginning to make itself felt. Alice's trip down the rabbit hole had nothing on this.

"Frehnk?" His name sounded slightly odd in her accent. Cromwell looked up to find Tesni regarding him curiously across the table. "Where have you come from that you know so little about Tir Awyr?"

 _Uh-oh._ This sounded like it might get dicey. He remembered the odd look that Nenniaw had given him from across the village square before shepherding the other newcomer out of sight. "Where do you think I am from, Tesni?"

She appeared to think this over for a moment. "When I first saw you, I thought you were someone that we had been told to watch for." Tesni shifted uncomfortably. "But it appears I was wrong. Still, you have come from the _drws rhyng y byd_ , have you not?"

The 'door between worlds'? Well, there was as apt a term for it as 'stargate'. Unless she meant something else? In some cultures he'd read about, that phrase that could just as easily refer to the portal between the everyday world and the spirit realm. Cromwell had a sense that was not what she meant, but decided to fish for a little more information before committing himself to an answer.

"Can you describe this door?"

Impatiently, she sketched a circle in the air. "On the hilltop, in the _cwmpad cylch_ — the compass circle. Where travelers come to Tir Awyr from other worlds, or leave to go to them."

Compass circle? That was what they called the plaza surrounding the gate? He had been right about the standing stones, then. _She makes it sound like people coming and going through that thing is an everyday occurrence. Playing dumb isn't going to work here. It would be like pretending I didn't know what an airport is, back home._

He sighed. "Yes. I did, though my people call it by a different name."

She nodded. "So I thought. From which world have you come, and who sent you here?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I came here by accident?"

She regarded him for a long time before answering. "You have a story to tell."

"I suppose I do. I also have many questions."

An hour later, he had established several things. One: despite being aware of the existence of other planets reachable via the stargate, Tesni herself had never been offworld. She knew people who had, though, and this included some of the local residents. Two: his simplified explanation that he had fallen into his own world's "doorway" while attempting to repair something that had gone wrong with its operation was met with a spate of questions regarding exactly which world was his. Which led to item number three: Tesni had never met any gate traveler who fit the description of any SGC personnel. He even drew a crude rendition of the SGC patch on the wooden tabletop with a dampened finger, but she showed no recognition. Four: Tesni's people had a history that included a tale of their having originated on another world long ago, but they knew virtually nothing about that world. They had been here for over sixty generations, Tesni had told him, proudly offering to recite her own lineage as evidence.

The fifth thing was perhaps the most unsettling. According to her people's legends, they had been brought to Tir Awyr by a god known as Bel. A god who was still known to visit from time to time, using the same "door between the worlds" that other travelers, including Cromwell himself, used. A god who appeared human, except for glowing eyes and a strangely modulated voice. A god who, if Tir Awyri legends were true, had appeared to his subjects in the same form for over two millennia. Normally, he would dismiss such claims as nothing more than mere fiction. One thing prevented his doing so in this case: his briefings regarding SGC activities in the Cheyenne Mountain complex had included mention of aliens who appeared as humans with glowing eyes and strange voices. Aliens who, if they were encountered, were to be contained at all costs.

Aliens known as the Goa'uld.

 

***

 

"For cryin' out loud, Doc! You couldn't warm that thing up just little before using it?"

Janet Fraiser gave her patient, who wasn't really being very patient at all, an amused smile as she moved her stethoscope into position on his torso. "Sorry, Colonel." Pulling it away, she rubbed it on her palm for a few seconds before reapplying it to his chest. "Better?"

"Yeah." O'Neill fidgeted while she listened to his heart and lungs. When she'd removed the earpieces, he resumed speaking. "You _are_ going to clear me to go through that gate."

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Whichever will get me off this planet in" — he glanced at his watch — "the next forty-three minutes."

"Colonel, you've still got lacerations, first-degree burns, bruises, a mild shoulder strain — "

He cut her off. "And a search and rescue mission to run. For a man, I might add, who helped save this entire planet."

"And that's why, despite the fact that you're still not completely recovered, I'm clearing you for gate travel." She took satisfaction in the look of surprise that rippled briefly across his face. "Just don't add to the list if you can help it. Fortunately, you're a pretty quick healer. " Watching as he slipped his T-shirt back on, she saw him wince a bit with the motion. "Some ibuprofen will take care of most of the soreness. Keep those cuts and burns as clean as you can."

She couldn't quite prevent tension from coloring her tone as personal knowledge born of experience with this particular patient warred with her medical training. O'Neill must have heard it, though he obviously chose to feign misinterpretation of the cause.

"Doc, I know your first encounter with him wasn't exactly fun. But Frank's really not a bad guy."

She nodded, the ghost of a smile curving her lips. "I know that, Colonel. You told me, remember?"

He had, during that restless interval when he could no longer sleep and was chafing to be up and about — and, she sensed, away from the infirmary and the entire SGC for a time. Never one to really talk in-depth about his personal life, O'Neill had surprised her a little by telling her the story of his friendship with Frank Cromwell, including the tale of how it had been fractured by what had happened on that damned mission in Iraq. Janet knew that even the most stoic of individuals could not completely ignore the need for release when stressed beyond capacity, and the events of the past couple of days had pushed even the colonel's limits. Deprived for the moment of any other outlet, and perhaps also driven by his memory of her initial treatment at the hands of his friend, Jack had begun to talk.And she had stayed to listen. There, in the evening-shift quiet of the infirmary, long after she had planned to go back home to her daughter Cassie, he had told her the story of how he and Frank had met. How they gone through Special Ops training together and then served side by side for twelve years, coming to rely so closely on one another in all manner of situations that they functioned nearly as one. How they had saved each other's lives so many times, in so many places, that they lost count. How he and Frank, with their wives Sara and Lisa, had become a family unto themselves; had welcomed together the birth of his son Charlie; had together celebrated good times and sustained each other through bad. How the two men had been brothers in every way but genetics, until their bond had been sundered by the combination of three bullets, enemy intelligence, and pure human error on a black ops mission during the Gulf War.

The colonel hadn't detailed his time in 'Club Med' but he didn't really need to. Janet had treated her share of former POWs and knew the kinds of physical, mental and emotional damage that could result from captivity in enemy hands. Although her primary job was to treat the body rather than the mind, this wasn't the first time she had sat and listened as the floodgates opened and a man poured out what had been eating him from the inside. It was, however, the first time that man had been a fellow officer with whom she worked on an almost daily basis, and whom she considered a personal friend. And so she had listened in the capacity of both friend and physician as he recounted the dark days of anger and hurt which had turned into years of bitterness before culminating in a final, if at first grudgingly withheld, forgiveness when the man who had once been his best friend appeared as if from nowhere to redeem himself by helping him to save the whole damn world... and had given his own life in the process just as Jack had opened himself to their friendship once again. Given it despite Jack's own best effort to save him. Underlying everything O'Neill had said, Janet could hear the regret and the grief that she knew this was as close as he would come to expressing openly.

This was why she would let him go through the gate today, when she would otherwise insist that he spend several more days recovering from his recent ordeal. He needed this; needed to be the one to rescue the friend he'd thought he'd lost forever. Or else he would need the closure that only leading even a failed attempt could bring him. She watched as the lanky figure rose from the exam table, buttoning his shirt as he strode toward the curtain separating the exam area from the rest of the infirmary. "Be careful out there," she called as he pushed it aside and vanished from view. The sound of the door closing followed a second later. "Godspeed, sir," she whispered to the empty room.

 

***

 

Cromwell lay awake, listening as the deepening night brought quiet to the village. He turned his conversation with Tesni over in his head. They had continued to talk for some time after she revealed her world's connection to the alien Goa'uld, his mind churning all the while with questions he dared not ask. He worried that he might have made a serious mistake in telling her anything at all about Earth. He hoped her supposed ignorance of anyone or anything related to the SGC was genuine. He got the sense that it was, but everything about this planet was confusing, and he could no longer afford to trust surface appearances. He had assumed that since these people appeared to have a fairly primitive society, they wouldn't be connected with the alien race threatening Earth. He wondered just how much other potentially useful information had not been included in his briefings. Of course, the Air Force more than likely assumed that no one in his position was going to wind up offworld, at least not without being in the company of SGC personnel. _Yeah, well, look what happens when we make assumptions, people._ He'd had the clearance, and now he had the need to know. Too bad no one had foreseen that possibility.

Not even Jack. The ten or so minutes they'd had to talk while prepping for their descent into the Gate Room had raised as many questions as it had answered. Somewhere in the time between the return of Captain Carter with the news that the auto-destruct would be useless, and the execution of her new plan, something had begun to thaw the glacial wall between his old friend and himself. Maybe O'Neill had actually taken to heart what he'd said with regard to Major Boyd and his team. Leaving someone behind wasn't always a choice. It could be a necessity, if there were no way to effect a rescue without even greater loss of life. Or in the case of Boyd's team, no way to effect one at all. Having it pointed out that this was the same situation, greatly magnified, as Cromwell himself had faced in Iraq appeared to have set something in motion within O'Neill, no matter how vehement his initial denial.

Alone in the locker room, the two men had busied themselves with buckles, laces and zippers, at first speaking only those words necessary to adjusting the g-suits. It was not an activity quickly or easily performed on oneself, and they fit them to each other. The task was reminiscent of countless other occasions spent double-checking each other's equipment before missions, and they fell naturally into the flow as though the intervening years had never happened. Finally, Jack broke the near-silence.

"We actually do have aliens here, you know. Well, one, anyway."

Cromwell's response was to tug harder on the lacing he was adjusting on Jack's right leg. He looked up, ready out of old habit for whatever joke was coming, and saw that Jack was serious.

He grinned anyway. "See now, I knew you were holding out on me, Jack."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is." A shrug. "You're probably going to get to meet him in a bit, so I wanted to warn you to not freak out or anything."

"That ugly, huh?"

"Oh yeah. Big scary dude named Teal'c. No hair. Looks like he should play left tackle for the Bears. Weird tattoo-thingy in the middle of his forehead. Don't mention it though; I think he's a little sensitive about it. Oh, and he's Jaffa, which means he's got a snake living in his gut."

He waited for the familiar O'Neill smirk; caught its ghost for just an instant. It was enough. "Sounds like a fun guy to have at parties. Friend of yours?"

"Actually, yeah. He's on my team. Him, our resident genius Captain Carter, and this geeky civilian Ph.D. named Jackson who speaks a metric buttload of languages and figured out how to get that gate out there to connect in the first place. We're a regular traveling circus."

"You always did know how to pick 'em."

The ghost gained more substance this time. "Nothing but the best for Jack O'Neill. You know that."

Cromwell grinned again.

Now, lying in the darkness on a strange world far from home, he reflected that in that moment in the locker room, he'd known they would be all right, he and Jack. With any luck, they would still get to be, provided he didn't manage to screw things up by saying something here on Tir Awyr that led to some new disaster for the SGC. He vowed to keep further information to himself until SG-1 or another team showed up.

For her part, Tesni had accepted his sudden reticence with aplomb, switching back to language lessons for a while before excusing herself to help lay out the evening meal. Most of the villagers preferred to share this meal outdoors during the summer months, she explained. He could understand why. The temperature had climbed steadily throughout the afternoon despite the surrounding forest, until even in the shade it felt like about 80°F. He watched as platters of roast meat, along with bread, cheese, greens and fruit appeared from somewhere behind the covered patio where he had spent the afternoon, and pitchers of herbal tea, cider and what smelled like spruce ale joined them on the tables. There must be a community kitchen beyond the wall that backed the patio. That would explain the scents of cookery and baking bread he had noticed as the day wore on.

Most of the food was familiar, too. He recognized chicken and pork, along with a couple varieties of fish. The orange cheese had a sharp flavor, while the pale yellow one tasted mildly nutty. The bread was crusty on the outside and chewy on the inside, reminding him with a pang of the homemade multigrain bread Lisa had sometimes baked during the years of their marriage. There was a pile of something he recognized as scallions, alongside some green leaves he couldn't place. The fruits were a mixture of species known on Earth — smallish early apples, raspberries and pears — and a few varieties he had never seen before, such as a tri-lobed yellow oddity about twice the size of his fist. Tesni noticed him studying one. "We call it _tair dogn_ ," she explained, slicing it into its three constituent parts and placing two of them on his plate. She popped the third into her mouth.

 _Tair dogn_ translated roughly as 'three portions'. An apt name. He took a tentative bite. It tasted like a combination of pear and orange, had a texture like cantaloupe, and was probably native to this world. He'd certainly never seen its like on Earth. As he chewed, he watched the villagers taking seats at the other tables. They looked healthy and well-fed. The children were active, running about while parents tried to calm them enough to sit and eat. He caught several of the children, and some of the adults as well, sneaking glances at him when they thought he wasn't looking. Well, he was a stranger here, an unknown quantity. Curiosity was natural.

He noticed that no one else had come to sit at the table he and Tesni occupied. Just as the thought crossed his mind, however, the two teenagers he had first met that morning at the bridge came up and spoke to Tesni. The exchange was a bit fast for him, but it sounded as if they were asking whether they might join them. Tesni nodded, smiling and gesturing for them to take seats on the bench. They did, one on each side of her. "Frehnk, I have not properly given you the names of my niece and nephew. Tegwyn is the daughter of my brother Idris, and Ris is his son." Both teens inclined their heads in his direction and smiled. _Polite kids,_ he thought, giving them each a smile in return.

The locals seemed friendly enough, but ever since Tesni had mentioned Bel, the alleged "god" responsible for relocating her people to Tir Awyr, alarm bells had been ringing in the back of his mind. What was their precise relationship with this Bel guy? He hoped he would be able to get off-planet and back to Earth without encountering any glowy-eyed aliens. More importantly, though, he hoped that any team the SGC sent to look for him would be able to avoid contact with the Goa'uld. He had no idea how often they came to this world. With any luck, they wouldn't decide to pay a visit while he was here.

As they were finishing their meal, Nenniaw approached and indicated to Tesni that he would like a word with her. She excused herself, and the pair moved off into the dusk, leaving Cromwell alone with Tegwyn and Ris. He tried to converse a bit with them, but they had a harder time with his accent, and in any case seemed distracted by something a few tables over. Glancing in that direction, he noticed the man who had come to the village earlier in the day. He was sitting at one end of a table in a corner of the patio, in the company of Nenniaw's two lieutenants. Cromwell didn't have to wonder what made him think of them in those terms. It was the same instinct that had caused his reaction to Nenniaw. All three Pridani men were soldiers, and so was his fellow visitor. He sensed this in their bearing, their economy of motion, even the clipped tones of the speech he was doing his best to understand. Moreover, Nenniaw had an air of command, something to which Cromwell had unconsciously responded as soon as he laid eyes on the man. When the military had been your life since reaching adulthood, you could read its stamp on others from a mile away. Even across cultural lines, he'd discovered.

Her conversation with Nenniaw concluded, Tesni returned to the table. Shooing Tegwyn and Ris off to help with cleanup — apparently the universal chore of teenagers everywhere — she resumed her seat across from Cromwell. "I will arrange a sleeping place for you soon, and you must rest. At first light we travel."

Travel? Where? Back through the gate? Where could they want to take him now, and why?

She must have seen the question in his eyes, for she elaborated. "We go to Dinas Coedwyg, half a morning's ride from here. Maybe a little less than that."

The name translated as Fort Forest, or perhaps Forest City. "Why am I being taken there?"

"Not only you. The other traveler, he goes as well. There are those there who will wish to speak with you both."

 _Uh-oh._ And he hadn't even said 'Take me to your leader'. Suddenly, the dire absurdity of his situation crashed in on him with full force, leaving him fatigued and drained. He felt on the verge of hysterical laughter. _Pull it together, Cromwell._ He was being borne along on a wave of circumstance over which he'd have precious little control without more information; information he was unlikely to obtain if he didn't keep hold of himself.

"What is this about, Tesni? Who am I supposed to speak with in Dinas Coedwyg, and why? Who is this other traveler who arrived soon after me?"

She hesitated, as if weighing how much she could safely tell him. And 'safely' in what sense, he wondered? Had Nenniaw cautioned her against giving him information? He would probably have done the same in the other man's shoes, depending on the circumstances. This was starting to feel like some of his old undercover ops. Did Tesni share Nenniaw's concerns, or was she merely wondering how much she could say without getting into trouble with a superior? As he found himself thinking of the two of them that way, he realized that a lot of other pieces fell into place as a result. Underlying the picture of peaceful, friendly villagers ran a current of something else. A tension, a feeling that there was far more to Llanavon and its inhabitants than met the eye, though he'd be damned if he could put his finger on exactly what it was. And there was still that Goa'uld connection to worry about. He glanced once more around the village, gauging possible escape routes he might take if things went south. He was beginning to fear they might.

A sound from Tesni drew his attention back. She finished clearing her throat, then spoke again, her voice pitched this time for his ears alone. "The other visitor gives his name as Morcant." She appeared to search his eyes for some sign of recognition at the name, but he had nothing. She continued, "My guess is that it will be Morcant whom the _cadlywydd_ will need to see. But he will want to see you as well." He groaned inwardly. The word she'd used had multiple translations, ranging loosely from 'marshal' to 'general'. _Take me to your leader, indeed._

She smiled. "Do not worry. Nenniaw has not spent the day speaking with you, as I have. I think you are a lost man, but he thinks a spy." Cromwell opened his mouth to protest at that, but she stopped him with a shake of her head. "I think not. You would be a poor spy, who barely understands our speech."

"I could be pretending, to make you tell me things." Cripe, why did he say that? But she only laughed. A small, momentary chuckle, swiftly stifled as she schooled her features to seriousness once again. It was still laughter; in her case an honest, refreshing sound with no malevolence behind it that he could detect.

"You could. I do not think you are. You are a soldier, but you are not a spy." So she could recognize it, too. No word in Tesni's language for 'airman', of course. 'Soldier' was the closest concept she had. It fit. As for being undercover — no, not today. It was as well she knew nothing about his past, he'd reflected.

Nevertheless, as he now lay on the pallet she'd fixed for him in a corner of what he supposed was her house, he was restless and filled with dread. The breeze through the window nearby still carried the heat of the vanished day. Not that heat would keep him awake. He'd slept like a baby in deserts and in jungles, taking rest where and when he could get it. You learned to do that in his line of work. Of course, there usually had been someone standing watch while he slept, which helped. That line of thought brought him back to Jack, naturally. For a dozen years, when it was the two of them on a mission, knowing that Jack had his back made it easy to sleep anywhere. He'd always hoped the feeling was mutual. It seemed to be: Jack could lie down, pull his hat over his eyes, and be out like a light in thirty seconds. And be up again in a flash, if there was need; Cromwell had never met anyone with quicker reflexes. He wondered what his friend was doing right now, and when he would see him again. Wondered _if_ he would do so.

He knew damn well that traipsing off into the woods and farther away from the gate was not going to improve his chances of that. While he was pretty sure that an SG team would not only scout the area immediately surrounding the gate for signs of him but would also follow the same trail that had led him to Llanavon, he was far less certain that they would manage to locate him if he left the village and went farther afield. A lot would depend on the Pridani cooperating and telling them of his whereabouts. Hell, he wasn't even sure how Jack or anyone else from the SGC would communicate with the locals here. Jack had mentioned something about SG-1's civilian linguist, a consultant to the Air Force. He hadn't met the man in the course of the crisis that brought him to the SGC; the good doctor had probably had been somewhere up top with the rest of the evacuees while he and Jack and the rest of Jack's team dealt with matters below. You didn't need a linguist to deal with a black hole, after all. He just hoped the guy was good, and knew some Welsh. What were the odds of that, though?

Of course, he could improve his chances if he just got the hell out of here and went back to the gate. He wasn't sure whether he was a prisoner or a guest. Getting up and simply heading for the exit was one way to find out, he supposed. If he wasn't a prisoner, they'd have to let him go. If they didn't, then at least he'd know his status. He didn't really want to hurt any of these people, although if he had to do so in order to free himself, he would. It beat being carried off to who-knew-where and missing his ride home.

Quietly, he sat up and took stock of the small house. It was full dark now and no candles or other lights burned, but he had entered at twilight, and remembered noting wood-and-plaster walls, a worn wooden floor, and a wall dividing the interior into two rooms. The one he was in was sparsely furnished with an oaken table, two benches and a couple of chairs, all fairly plain and sturdy. His pallet occupied the corner farthest from the door, where the dividing wall joined an outer wall. A fireplace took up a portion of this outer wall, its hearth cold in the summer heat. Tesni must rely on the communal kitchen for food and hot water at this time of year, he reasoned. Listening intently, he could just hear her breathing softly in the sleeping room on the other side of the dividing wall. An open doorway linked the two rooms, about ten feet from where he sat. In the other direction, he knew, about fifteen feet separated him from the home's entryway, a narrow opening filled by a door of nondescript, weathered wood. He recalled iron hinges and a worn-looking latch. He hoped they were well-oiled.

Levering himself up from the pallet, he crossed the room silently, pausing to feel the door hinges. His finger came away slightly greasy. Good; he should be able to open the door without anyone's hearing. Probably quieter than climbing out an open window, though the thought of doing the latter had crossed his mind. He glanced back at the room again, double-checking his options. The windows appeared as slightly lighter rectangles in the overall dimness, their sills about four feet off the floor with nothing beneath them to climb on, unless he wanted to start moving furniture around and risk waking Tesni. The openings themselves were narrow, offering no room to swing his legs up and gain purchase; he'd have to pull himself up using his arms alone and then wriggle through, head-first. Not really all that difficult, especially for someone with his training. But to do it silently, in his current state? _Eh, maybe five years ago._ Christ, he could do it right now, he knew, if his arms and shoulders — okay, everything else, too — weren't stiff and sore as hell from all that had gone on in the Gate Room and that rough landing when he'd exited the wormhole on this planet. But at the moment, hard as it was to admit, he trusted the door more than he trusted his own body.

Lifting the latch, he gave a gentle tug. The wooden slab swung noiselessly on its hinges, and he stopped it with a hand when the gap was wide enough to slip through. A peek outside showed the empty lane, just around the corner from the village square, everything barely visible in the inky blackness. Between the surrounding forest blocking all but a patch of sky directly overhead and the fact that the only one of the planet's moons even visible was a mere sliver in its current phase, he had only the faint glow of a portion of the Milky Way's ribbon to light his path. It was enough, if just barely, as his eyes had adjusted to the darkness several hours ago when he'd lain down and feigned sleep on his temporary bed. Oh, not that he'd exactly mind having a pair of night-vision goggles right about now, but he was grateful for the fact that his own natural night vision had always been good, even into middle age.

Stepping fully outside, he pulled the door shut behind him. He turned slowly, making a 360-degree sweep of the area, checking to see whether anyone had observed his exit. Seeing no one at either ground level or above, he set off in the opposite direction from the square, intending to slip along the inside of the settlement's protective wall until he came to an egress. What he would do then would depend on whether there were guards or not. He assumed there would be. While not ideal, it was the best plan he could come up with on limited resources. He had no weapon beyond his own bare hands and the makeshift staff he had picked up on his trek through the forest. For some reason, he'd been permitted to keep it when Tesni took him to her home. This gave him hope that he wasn't quite regarded as a prisoner. After all, who in their right mind allowed a prisoner to have a potential weapon? Unless, of course, the captors had weapons so much more powerful as to render it ineffective, which didn't seem to be the case here. A staff could be useful against someone wielding a sword or a knife, maybe even a spear, though not against arrows or other projectiles. He doubted there would be much use of those within the confines of the village anyway. Now if the locals had firearms, he was toast, but he'd seen nothing to indicate that this was the case.

Making his way along the perimeter wall, he stopped every few feet to listen for sounds of alarm or pursuit. The drone of woodland insects and a rising breeze which caused the forest leaves to flutter conspired to make this somewhat difficult, but also served to mask the sound of his own movements. He could smell rain in the air, still some distance off if his guess was any good. He hoped he could get out of Dodge and find shelter before it came. He didn't relish the thought of spending the night wet on top of the soreness and stiffness he already felt from the abuse his body had taken in the past twenty-four hours. Of course, being sore and wet beat being held captive on any day ending in -y, and rain would actually make things more difficult for anyone trying to track him in it.

He felt, rather than saw or heard, motion above just an instant before a body landed on him. That brief warning was enough to make him lunge to the right, so that his assailant caught only his left side, knocking him off-balance rather than bearing him to the ground. He recovered and whirled, his staff at the ready. In the darkness, it was hard to separate his opponent from the shadows, but he could hear rough breathing and the shifting of feet as whoever it was tried to assess the best position from which to launch another attack. Not about to give him the opportunity, Cromwell moved in toward the sound. He swept his staff low, caught something solid in the shadows just above ankle-level and sent the other man sprawling. Heard him grunt on impact, and hoped to heaven that no one else did. He was surprised that this individual, whoever he was, had chosen to leap on him from above and pursue a solo fight rather than merely raising the alarm and bringing out the rest of the guard or the watch or whoever was responsible for keeping the peace in the wee hours. Even yelling out once he'd landed would have made sense. So what was the purpose of this attack, if not expressly to prevent his escape from Llanavon?

A scuffling sound told him that his attacker was attempting to rise. If he wanted to make a clean escape, he couldn't let any alarm be given. He leaped toward the sound, flattening the other back into the dirt and straw that made up the street. He noticed as he did so that the figure he had landed on felt slighter than expected. One of the village youths? They didn't seriously put kids on watch here, did they? He flashed back just for an instant to Nicaragua; saw again that teenaged kid in the contra unit, the one who'd bought it in the firefight that had gotten him and Jack out of there after the mission went south. _Shit. It isn't like that here, is it? Please tell me it's not like that..._

The body beneath him squirmed, facedown in the dirt. He shifted his weight, reaching to clamp one hand over the other's mouth as the head turned, and flipped him over, pinning arms to sides with his knees. This was definitely a kid. _Shitshitshit._ In the faint starlight, he peered into the wide eyes that stared, frightened now, into his own. Ris. _What the hell is going on?_

He heard the sound of approaching feet, at least three sets of them, just before flickering torchlight painted the area. Clearly, it had been too much to hope that no one had heard their altercation. He looked up to see Nenniaw and one of his lieutenants approaching. And Tesni.


	7. Fragile

_Our strength is often composed of the weakness that we're damned if we're going to show._ — Mignon McLaughlin

 

Sixty-seven minutes after O'Neill's confrontation with Hammond in the Control Room, SG-1 stood in the Gate Room, waiting as the gate was dialed.

Samantha Carter glanced at O'Neill's face as he prepared to lead them through the the gate to P2A-870. He looked almost... Well, 'haggard' was a term she hated to apply to her CO. But he was clearly still feeling the effects of all that had taken place recently. The fact that Janet had cleared him for this mission obviously meant that he was physically up to gate travel, but all the same, there was something just not quite right. Carter supposed that what she was seeing was the cumulative effects of physical and emotional trauma. If he were anyone else, she might be almost tempted to use the word 'fragile' to describe the way he looked and moved at present. But if there was one thing in the universe that Jack O'Neill was not, at least in her experience, it was fragile. A lot of other things, perhaps, but never that. Not even when he'd thought he was dying, lying there in the ice cave created by the Antarctic gate. Delirious, regretful, half-frozen, severely injured, and damn near dead, yes. Fragile, no.

She shook her head to clear it, and blinked as the familiar _kawoosh_ of the unstable event horizon dominated the Gate Room for a second before settling into the calm ripple indicative of a stabilized wormhole. Watched the Colonel square his shoulders before turning to look first at Teal'c, then at Daniel and herself as the MALP trundled up the ramp and disappeared into the gate. She saw him fidget impatiently as they waited for the device to arrive on the other side and send back its telemetry. After what seemed an interminable interval even to her, General Hammond keyed the mike from the Control Room above. "SG-1, SG-5, MALP telemetry indicates mild weather conditions and no sign of snow. Also no sign of hostiles or any other presence in the immediate vicinity of the gate. You have a 'Go' for the mission. SG-5, proceed through the gate and set up a secure perimeter, then report back via radio. SG-1, you may embark as soon as SG-5 reports."

After SG-1 shed the cold-weather gear they'd donned as a precaution, O'Neill continued to fidget while waiting for SG-5 to signal them. He turned to her and commented in a stage whisper, "You'd think we'd never gated solo to another planet before."

Carter smiled in spite of herself. "Well, sir, to be honest, having a little help on this one isn't a bad idea. If nothing else, it gives us more pairs of eyes and ears for the search." She caught the split-second of bleakness in his eyes before he schooled his features to something closer to his normal demeanor. Carter felt a faint regret over her words. Not that she'd said anything wrong, she knew, but clearly her CO was on edge over this mission, and she'd apparently triggered something. _This definitely means more to him than just the normal 'leave no one behind' thing,_ she realized.

SG-5 must have sent a signal back, because Hammond keyed the mike again. "Okay, SG-1, you're cleared to embark. Godspeed."

O'Neill was halfway up the ramp before the General finished speaking. Carter darted a glance at the other two team members as she jogged a little to keep up. Daniel gave her a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, while Teal'c merely raised an eyebrow. They caught up to O'Neill just at the verge of the event horizon, and the gate swallowed all four of them together.

Stepping out onto P2A-870, the first thing Carter noticed was bright sunshine and abundant greenery. As far as she could tell, the blizzard encountered during last month's attempt to explore the planet must have been a meteorological fluke. Today's weather was pleasantly warm. As the wormhole snapped out of existence behind them, SG-1 descended shallow stone steps to a flagstoned plaza. Lieutenant Barber already had SG-5 arrayed around the area, weapons at the ready. "We have secured the perimeter, Colonel," he reported. "Still no sign of hostiles."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." O'Neill eyed their surroundings. The Stargate occupied a flattened circular plaza ringed by four stone megaliths atop a low hill surrounded by forest. He turned to his team. "Fan out, and we'll comb the area from here to the edge of the forest. Maintain radio contact, and no one goes into the woods alone. If we find no sign of him in the open, we'll split up into pairs and tackle the woods."

Half an hour later, they had a good overall idea of the terrain immediately surrounding the gate, but there was no sign of Colonel Cromwell. However, Teal'c had noted a well-worn trail leading into the forest. It showed signs of recent use. O'Neill detailed Barber and his team to search the forest nearest the stargate and maintain radio contact while SG-1 investigated the trail.

As they followed the trail — almost more of a narrow road, really — all four members of SG-1 kept a sharp eye out for signs of any human activity or passage. Sam and Daniel noticed a number of trees and other plants that appeared to belong to Earth species. "Looks like there's been some transplantation from Earth, Jack," Daniel commented.

"Wonderful." SG-1's leader grimaced. "That means the Goa'uld were busy here, too?"

"So it would seem, O'Neill," agreed Teal'c. "I have no personal experience with this world, however."

"Sir, at least that means this trail was probably made by humans. If Colonel Cromwell is here, he may have been able to obtain shelter and aid from the local population." Carter was determined to find something she could say that would lift the shadow from her CO's eyes. Although, on closer inspection, it appeared that simply having arrived here and being engaged in some type of action was helping. He still seemed tense, but she recognized it as the tension of anticipation now, rather than of dread. She knew him well enough to be aware that as long as he was doing something positive, he would cope better than he would while merely waiting for something to happen. She often felt the same way herself.

"Carter, I hope you're right," O'Neill responded.

They hiked along for another couple of minutes in silence, until Daniel broke it with a question.

"Sam, there's something I still don't get."

"What's that, Daniel?"

He frowned, blue eyes squinting behind his glasses the way he always did when he was trying to visualize something just beyond his understanding. "Well, when the SGC dialed out to P3W-451, what caused the black hole's gravity field to leak back through the wormhole? I didn't even know that was possible."

Carter shook her head. "Neither did I, actually, until it happened. But as far as I can tell from my calculations, it's got to be part of the same mechanism that allows MALP telemetry and other comm signals to travel through the gate bi-directionally, even though matter transmission is strictly one-way. Conditions inside the wormhole simply affect matter and energy in different ways. The gate breaks down and reconstitutes whatever matter enters or exits, depending on whether it is in sending or receiving mode. That's part of the difference between an incoming and an outgoing wormhole. But since energy is already energy, it gets transmitted in its original state. The gate doesn't have to do anything to it, so it just passes through, regardless of what the gate itself is set to do. Gravity is energy, rather than matter, so it passed through the same way. This was the first time that we'd ever encountered a gravitational field of that magnitude, which is probably why we never noticed the effect before."

"So gate technology treats matter and energy completely differently, right?" Daniel asked for clarification.

"Well, yes. I mean, inside the wormhole, everything is energy, and exists outside of our universe in a realm where the laws of physics operate differently from what we're used to. The wormhole itself can theoretically be affected by structures in our universe projecting into this super-universe beyond, but within the wormhole, our physical laws simply don't apply, which makes wormhole physics a completely different field. Once I went back and re-did the calculations last night, I realized this was the same reason why once Colonel Cromwell had passed our gate's event horizon, the gravity and even the bomb blast would have ceased to affect him in any normal sense for as long as he remained within the wormhole. From there, it was only a matter of calculating how the energy introduced by the bomb would combine with the gravitational energy and the time dilation to affect the internal geometry of the wormhole itself, including the time it would take an energy pattern representing an object inside to complete transit from one end to the other, compared to how long it was from the time of entry until the wormhole jumped. Once we knew how far the jump was, that gave me some figures to work with that I didn't have before. The model I've constructed still isn't perfect, but it was close enough" — she waved an arm, indicating the forest around them — "to send us on a rescue mission."

Daniel was nodding now, while Teal'c looked intrigued. Carter glanced at the Colonel and noticed that his eyes had taken on that glazed look he got whenever she tried to explain the science behind something.

"Care to simplify that for me, Captain? It sounds like you're saying that we're transmitted as energy when we travel through the gate, and we only become matter again as we exit. Have I got that even close to correct?"

She hid a smile. "What did you think 'molecular deconstruction' meant?"

"Carter?"

"Sir?"

"Did it ever occur to you that I've spent the past couple of years trying _not_ to think about it?"

 

***

 

Cromwell glared at Nenniaw in the yellow lamplight. He had been herded into a nearby building by Nenniaw and the other man, whose name, he overheard, was Celyn. Tesni lit their way, at the same time supporting her nephew. She was silent, her face troubled in the flickering glow of the torch. Once inside, Celyn ushered a stumbling, bleeding Ris into an adjoining room and shut the door, leaving the other three alone. With Tesni translating, Nenniaw began by asking Cromwell exactly what had led to the fight.

Incredulous, Cromwell goggled at him. "I don't know. What would _you_ do if somebody took a flying leap at you from ten feet up?" he growled. The adrenalin was still in his veins; on top of that, he had finally run out of patience and didn't particularly care who knew it. At this point, he'd been awake for damn near forty hours by his count, minus the twenty or thirty minutes he'd spent unconscious upon his arrival through the stargate. In that time, he'd led a strike force into a military base suspected of being overrun by hostiles; rappelled into a high-gee gravity well with a bomb; been sprayed with shattered glass; fallen through an even higher-gee zone after the line suspending him snapped; had his atoms disassembled, transmitted through God-knew-what permutations of spacetime and reassembled light-years from home; sustained a minor head injury; and then spent an entire day in the local equivalent of language school followed by several hours of trying to decide exactly how much of a security risk for Earth his presence here might pose, all before being leapt on in the pitch-darkness and having to fight his attacker only to find out it was just some local kid. And that was just a partial list. _Yeah, just another peachy day at the office. God_ damn, _I need a friggin' smoke._

He could hear Tesni hiss sharply as she prepared to translate his sarcastic reply, but didn't look at her. She spoke to him, though, after translating his words for Nenniaw. "Ris made a mistake, Frehnk. He was not meant to do this."

"Well, then why did he?" He turned the glare on her now, at full intensity. To her credit, he noted that she didn't flinch.

"He is young, and takes himself too seriously at times. He was simply to watch for danger from beyond the wall, as our watchers do on any other night. I do not think he expected you to be in the street."

"But why leap on me like that? Am I not allowed to leave this place?"

"His choice of action was stupid and deserves discipline. However, I suspect he thought you were absolutely required to remain in my house, which is one error that is not his fault." She cast a pointed look at Nenniaw, and spoke in Pridanic far too swift and complicated for Cromwell to follow. She appeared to be taking the other man to task for what had happened. Nenniaw responded hotly, and Tesni repeated whatever she had said. Nenniaw shook his head, gesturing at Cromwell as he responded again.

Impatient, Cromwell broke in. "Am I a prisoner or not?" He directed the question at Nenniaw, but he looked to Tesni to make sure his meaning got across. Tesni spoke again to Nenniaw, still too rapidly for Cromwell to follow more than a few words. He could see Nenniaw's brow furrow. The response was equally fast, and Tesni translated.

"He says you are not a prisoner. You are a free man. But he would know why you were sneaking along the wall in the middle of the night."

"Tell him I was looking for the way out, and I was under the impression that I might not be allowed to leave. Tell him I wanted to go back to the compass circle." _Tell him I want to go home, and I don't have the first fucking clue how to do that._

Nenniaw listened as Tesni explained, then responded with a stream of Pridanic that left her nodding before turning to Cromwell.

"He says that you have enjoyed our hospitality, shared a meal with us, and been given shelter. These are the duty owed to a guest. But you came here a stranger, and by your clothing and your speech, you are not from our world. Honesty is the duty owed in return for hospitality, no? Nenniaw would know who you are and where you come from, and he would have you share that information with the _cadlywydd_ in Dinas Coedwyg." Tesni paused, then added what appeared to be her own explanation. "He says you are free, but he does not trust you yet. The _cadlywydd_ will decide whether you can be trusted. We have enemies, and must be careful."

She paused, then added, "I trust you, and will speak to the _cadlywydd_ myself in your favor tomorrow when we see him. Please, remain here and go with us tomorrow. I give you my word that you will not be harmed or detained."

"This _cadlywydd_ will listen to you?" Cromwell asked.

A small smile. "He has reason to do so. Please, I can tell you no more right now. Let us go back and get what sleep we can."

"I have friends who may come looking for me, and if I'm not here when they arrive — "

She stopped him. "I will have Tegwyn keep watch. You can leave some sign with her to show them your presence. We will return here before nightfall."

There was nothing for it but to agree. If it took more than a few days before the SGC sent a team to locate him, he knew it would be helpful to have people in the area who were friendly toward him. Cooperation now would help to ensure that, while refusal would likely alienate the locals, something would prefer not to do at the moment.

He shrugged, spreading his hands in aquiescence. "It seems I have little choice. What about Ris?"

"He will apologize to you in the morning, before we leave."

Cromwell shook his head. "The boy was doing what he thought was his job, Tesni. I just want to know whether he is all right. I hit him pretty hard a time or two." Truth be told, he was very glad that he hadn't gotten to land the type of blows he might have managed had he not been been both dog-tired and fighting in nearly total darkness. Despite the very real fact that sometimes the forces he had to oppose — or even some of the ones he was expected to aid — included minors in their ranks, Cromwell was never comfortable with the idea. As far as he was concerned, combat of any sort was strictly a job for adults, and the thought of putting kids in harm's way turned his stomach. Granted, with Ris it had been guard duty rather than the front line, but that didn't change much, in Cromwell's mind. The fact remained that the kid had been placed by his elders in a situation he wasn't ready for, been given too little and/or possibly misleading information, and had misjudged what he should do as a result. Cromwell abhorred the thought that he might have seriously injured the youth over what was basically a misunderstanding.

Tesni shook her head. "I believe he is only bruised. He will recover." She shrugged. "It is the price of making a mistake."

Cromwell couldn't keep the darkness from his voice. "He is lucky. The price could have been _much_ higher."

He and Tesni had spoken in the cobbled-together mixture of Welsh and Pridanic they had worked out over the course of the afternoon. Regardless, Nenniaw appeared to have at least gotten the basic gist of the conversation, probably from their tone and their mention of Ris by name, for he turned and motioned them both to follow him into the next room.

Ris sat on a bench against the wall, a blood-streaked cloth pressed to his face and a mug half-full of ale within reach. He started when they entered, but Celyn, seated next to him, stayed him with a quiet word. The boy looked pale in the lamplight, an impression only enhanced by the purple bruise beginning to bloom under one eye. Still, he was alert, which was a good sign. Cromwell reminded himself that at least the kid would probably heal quickly due to the resilience of youth.

Tesni planted herself squarely in front of Ris and unleashed a torrent of Pridanic, which was punctuated by the occasional short, sharp bark of reply from her nephew.

The three men — Celyn, Nenniaw, and, a second later, Cromwell — shared a look. Ris was getting his ass royally chewed by his aunt, Cromwell realized. Although the exchange was far too fast for him to follow, one look at the youth's expression was enough to make him feel sorry for the kid. Hard on the heels of that came the unbidden thought, based on the tone of what he was hearing, that Tesni might well give his old drill instructor from ROTC field training a run for his money in terms of sheer vehemence. He fought to stifle the amusement generated by that image even as he reflected that there was clearly far more to this woman than appeared on the surface. He wondered again exactly what kind of situation he had been dropped into.

As Tesni concluded the verbal discipline session, Ris glanced in Cromwell's direction, and said something that gave his aunt pause. She snorted, then turned to Cromwell with humor in her eyes.

"My nephew asks me to tell you that if you remain among us, he would be honored to receive lessons from you. _After_ he has had some time to heal."

Cromwell found he didn't quite know how to respond to that. What he did know was that he was just about as bone-weary as he remembered being in a long time, and that dawn couldn't be more than five or six hours off. If he was going to travel to Dinas Coedwyg at first light — and he had already decided he didn't really have a better option at present — he was going to have to get some damn sleep first.

He allowed Tesni to lead him back to her house, although he insisted on carrying their light — a lantern this time — as well as the staff that had been returned to him at Tesni's urging, even over Nenniaw's objection. Once inside, Tesni lit a fat candle on the table, placing an amber glass chimney over it. The room seemed somehow more comfortable with a little light, Cromwell had to admit. If nothing else, it pushed back the external darkness, leaving him only his own internal supply to deal with.

Despite the fatigue that had overtaken him, he was unwilling to be seen keeling over into the oblivion he craved right now. Instead, he sank down on one of the benches and leaned his back against the table. _Let Tesni go to bed, then you can crawl off into your corner and pass out. Less embarrassing for both of you._ He reached up to massage his forehead, where the headache that had taken up residence earlier in the day was beginning to make its presence more strongly felt. He noted with disgust the visible tremor in his hand as he did so. The adrenalin rush had passed, and that combined with forty hours of wakefulness left him on the verge of the shakes. He'd been there before, and always hated the feeling. _Dammit, get it the fuck together, Cromwell._

Tesni must have noticed too, because she gestured firmly toward his pallet. "Please, lie down and sleep."

"I will. Just give me a moment." When she said nothing, he glanced up. "Go back to bed. I will be all right."

Tesni fixed him with an exasperated stare, of exactly the sort one might use on a recalcitrant child who'd insisted on staying up long past bedtime. Making her way around the end of the table with a sigh, she sat down on the same bench, perhaps a foot away from him. Her expression softened a bit as she reached out slowly to pull a piece of dry grass from his hair. He held very still at the touch.

"I do know what tired men look like," she said quietly. "You need rest. I need rest. Do not concern yourself over tomorrow. Nenniaw talks much, but the _cadlywydd_ will listen to me, and Nenniaw will listen to the _cadlywydd_. If your friends come while we are gone, Tegwyn will keep them here. It will be easier if you give some token she can show them, but she will do it."

"Tesni, why do you trust me, when Nenniaw does not?" Cromwell was genuinely curious.

She gave him another of those small smiles. "I understand people, Frehnk. Better than Nenniaw does, although he is not usually so thick-headed as he is at present. I spoke with you for most of the day, and by the end I said to myself, 'Now here is a man who is lost. He is not where he means to be.' No?"

He shook his head, couldn't help the wry smile. "A good way to put it." _What's the Pridanic word for 'understatement'?_

"You said you want only to return home, but you do not know the symbols for your world, and that is why you remain. I believe that, and so I think you mean us no harm. That is what I will tell the _cadlywydd_."

"And he will believe you?" Cromwell still had his doubts.

Tesni clearly did not share them. "He will." She gave him a questioning look. "You have told me the truth, as much as you have told me anything. I think also you are reluctant to tell me more."

How could he explain it to her? And more importantly, why did he feel as though he should? _Because you're hell and gone from home, and this woman is the closest thing you have to a friend here, that's why._ He sighed. "It is nothing to do with you. Just a very long story, and one I am too tired to tell now." _Even if I dared, which I don't, and I have no idea what I'm going to tell your_ cadlywydd _tomorrow, but I'll think of something._

She reached out again, gently brushing another blade of grass from his hair. He closed his eyes, then forced them open again after a second. "So sleep, before morning comes," she said. She was silent a moment, as if in thought, before asking, "Do you trust me?"

Cromwell examined the question, and realized that it was completely separate from the one he'd already spent hours wrangling. He didn't trust the situation he was in, not so far as he could throw this house. But Tesni herself? _Yes_ , he decided.

"I trust you." _God knows why, but I do._

She nodded solemnly. "Then believe me when I tell you that all will be well, or as much so as I can make it." She rose from the bench then, and gestured once more toward the pallet. "I say again, sleep while you can."

He was past fooling her at this point, Cromwell realized. He nodded this time, standing and making his way across the room to fall, exhausted, onto the makeshift bed. With eyes half-closed, he watched as she turned back to the table. Pausing over the candle, she looked a question.

"Blow it out," he mumbled. They had to make their own candles here, he was sure, and the inside of his eyelids was all he'd be looking at for the next few hours anyway. Even as he completed the thought, sleep took him.


	8. Daybreak

_Don't count me out  
I may be lost but I'm not gone_

                  — Ryan Kickland, "A Wide Open Space" ( _The Mountain_ , 2010)

  


Cromwell's eyes snapped open at the sound of birdsong. The pale light of false dawn painted the windows. He felt as though he'd only been asleep mere minutes, although a glance at his watch confirmed that he'd slept for just over five and a half hours. Still nowhere near enough, and he knew it, but it was better than nothing. He moved to sit up, only to find himself tangled in a blanket he didn't remember pulling up when he crashed. Tesni, maybe? He'd been out like a light almost as soon as he was horizontal, he knew that much. For some reason the thought that she might have covered him wasn't surprising. However the blanket had gotten there, he was grateful for its warmth. The temperature had dropped just far enough to make sleeping in shirtsleeves a chilly affair.

He could still smell rain in the air, which probably explained the coolness. If a front was coming in, travel would be a hassle. He had no idea what this planet's weather patterns were like, of course, but he had plenty of experience with slogging cross-country in the rain. He rose and moved to the window to peer outside, gathering the blanket around him to ward off the chill. From all indications, there had already been some rainfall; droplets pattered from the trees as a light breeze blew. He was mildly surprised he had slept through it, though he supposed he shouldn't be, given how utterly exhausted he had felt when he went to bed.

Sounds of motion from the next room alerted him that Tesni was awake. A moment later she appeared, a woolen cloak in faint gray plaid over her tunic and trews. She carried its twin, in muted shades of blue, which she laid on the bench near the table. Seeing him already awake and upright, she crossed to join him at the window.

"You feel better now?" she asked.

Cromwell nodded. "Some." He plucked at the blanket around his shoulders. "Thank you for this."

She smiled. "You are welcome." She gestured at the cold hearth. "If I had expected the coolness early on, I would have made a fire last night."

"Only if you wanted one. No need on my account. So this — " he indicated the weather outside, "is unusual for this season?"

A shrug. "Somewhat. I usually find it far too warm to light a fire indoors through most of the summer." She eyed him critically. "We will be meeting Nenniaw and the others soon, but there is time yet. Come, sit at the table."

Puzzled, he did as she asked, watching as she retreated into the next room for a moment, returning with her arms loaded. She laid several items on the table: a pitcher, a basin, two folded cloths, a small cake of what appeared to be soap, and a polished bronze mirror. She peered at his face again, then handed him the mirror. "I was right. You were bleeding."

He examined his reflection. He appeared almost as tired as he still felt; if he looked like this after sleeping, he could only imagine the 'before' picture. He must have looked like hell. No wonder Tesni had insisted on making sure he went to bed, before she would go herself. There was a smudge of dull red on his left cheek, and he wondered how long it had been there. Ever since he was struck by flying glass in the Gate Room, perhaps? He didn't think it was from anything that happened last night. He touched the spot, and it began to bleed again. Tesni had said nothing earlier, so the wound was probably new. He guessed he'd missed brushing this one tiny shard off after awakening in the compass circle, and it had pierced his skin while he slept with his face buried in the pillow, as was often his habit.

As Cromwell worked the sliver of glass out of his skin, Tesni took up the pitcher and stepped to the door. "I will be right back."

A few moments later she returned with the pitcher steaming in the predawn coolness and a bundle under one arm. She poured about half the pitcher's contents into the basin, and most of the rest into a ceramic pot to which she added dried herbs. Unwrapping the bundle, she laid out bread and cheese while Cromwell washed his face.

He needed a shave, he noted, but that wasn't likely to happen anytime soon. Although from what he'd seen, most of the men here went clean-shaven, so he supposed at some point he'd manage it. At the moment, however, he found that just the application of hot water and soap did wonders for his mental state, clearing away the worst of the fatigue and even soothing the lingering remnants of headache. He still very badly wanted a cigarette, but he hadn't any on him. _Suck it up._ The fragrant steam from Tesni's teapot began to reach him, and he hoped to high heaven there was at least some caffeine in whatever was brewing. He doubted he'd be that lucky. No coffee, no cigarettes. _Quit bitching, Cromwell. You're_ alive _. Isn't that luck enough for you?_

He felt eyes upon him, and looked up to see Tesni studying him as she poured their tea. "That's better," she said, reaching across to set a mug near his elbow. She added a plate of bread and cheese, then frowned and moved around to his side of the table. "Turn your head."

He did, and she examined behind one ear. "You have more blood here. Hold still." She took the wet cloth from him and sponged the spot. The cloth came away with a new streak of red. "This is not from last night, I think. I saw it yesterday, and the cuts on your arms. What happened to you?"

Cromwell let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "It is part of that long story. When I was trying to repair my world's gate — our _drws rhyng y byd_ — there was broken glass. Ours is not out in the open as yours is. The room which holds it has a wall of glass." Her eyes widened at that. "The glass broke, and the pieces flew. Some hit me. I thought I had removed it all, but apparently not."

"Let me see where you cannot, then. Bend your head forward." Tesni searched his hair and neck for additional glass shards, finding two tiny flecks embedded near his nape and another in his scalp near the crown. She removed them and washed the areas gently with the cloth. She also examined the tender spot where he'd hit his head, asking about headaches and other symptoms before assuring him that, yes, it appeared to be as minor an injury as he claimed but cautioning him to tell her if anything changed.

Throughout the process, Cromwell was reminded of a distant morning, at Christmas many years ago, when he and Jack arrived at Jack and Sara's home in Colorado Springs after a long, eventful trip home from Incirlik, Turkey... a trip that began with a last-minute announcement of leave and nearly ended in disaster. The C-130 that brought them home to the States landed at Travis, where they soon discovered that heavy snow had grounded further flights that might get them the rest of the way home. After waiting impatiently for several hours for the weather to clear, the two of them finally gave up on flying and set out to drive to the Springs. Desperate to get home to their wives and to Jack's infant son — Lisa was spending the holiday with Sara and the baby — they'd driven across the Rockies in a snowstorm without stopping for more than a meal and coffee, before rolling their rented Jeep and narrowly escaping death in the process on a twisting dirt road at high elevation. Jack had pulled him from the wrecked vehicle just before it toppled into a ravine and exploded into flame. They'd walked — God alone knew how — away from the scene together, back to the paved road and continued on foot. After grabbing a few hours of sleep in a lonely barn near the roadway, the pair set out again after the snowfall ceased. In the end, they managed to hitch a ride with a friendly ex-Marine and his wife, bound for Denver, who found them walking along the side of the road in the wee hours and drove them to their destination. Their arrival — unannounced, half-frozen and thoroughly banged-up, in predawn darkness — had woken both Sara and Lisa, who fussed over them, cleaning and bandaging the cuts and scrapes acquired on their journey, without knowing or asking the cause.

Tesni _had_ asked the reason for his injuries; for some reason, he had felt comfortable answering. She had then taken the answer in stride, despite its including what to her must surely be a fantastic concept, and simply set to work helping him. He marveled at that, even as she finished up before clearing the basin away and sliding his breakfast in front of him. Suddenly, Cromwell knew: _She's done this before. Probably more than once, unless I miss my guess. And she's seen much worse than anything that's going on with me right now._

He wondered who or what he reminded her of, as she moved to sit across from him, where her own meal lay as yet untouched. "Thank you," he said.

Her response was another of those small, pensive smiles. "Eat," she told him. "We will be meeting Nenniaw and the others soon."

They finished their meal, rinsing the mugs with the remainder of the water from the pitcher. Cromwell shrugged the blanket from his shoulders, folding it on his sleeping pallet and donning the blue cloak. Determining that more rain was on the way, Tesni moved to close the shutters. He beat her to it on the second window, earning a broader smile of gratitude.

Tesni led him to the same building where they had been last night, after his encounter with the unfortunate Ris. A fire was burning on the hearth inside, and a small iron kettle simmered over the flames. A teapot on the table gave off an herbal scent, this one different from whatever mixture Tesni had brewed. Nenniaw and Celyn were seated on a bench before the fire, sipping from mugs. They turned as Cromwell and Tesni entered.

Cromwell wasn't sure what sort of reception he expected from the pair this morning, but they greeted him cordially enough. Apparently, being vouched for by Tesni carried some weight around here, and he was again reminded how fortunate he was to have her as an ally. As Tesni set out two more mugs and began to pour whatever was in the pot, the door opened again, this time admitting Nenniaw's other lieutenant, and the man that Tesni had identified as Morcant. Tesni handed Cromwell a mug, murmuring, "The man with Morcant is called Dynawd. He is Nenniaw's brother." She moved off to speak with the pair.

Cromwell inhaled the steam from his beverage, then drank. _What I wouldn't give for a cup of coffee right now,_ he thought again. This version of tea smelled and tasted slightly spicy, and it was warming, which he supposed made it a reasonable compromise. _I still want a damn cigarette._ Of all the times to be forced to go without...

This line of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Tegwyn. Cromwell remembered it would be her job to watch for anyone the SGC might send looking for him. Because of the language barrier, he would need to give her something identifiable as being, if not necessarily his personally, at least from Earth and nowhere else, so that anyone looking at it would know that he'd been here. Of course, he supposed he could leave a note, if only he could find something to write with, and on. _Do these people even have writing?_

Tesni appeared at his elbow again, her niece in tow. "Frehnk, the horses are ready. We must go in a moment. Who shall Tegwyn watch for, and how will she know them?"

He trusted Tesni, who obviously trusted Tegwyn, which meant that he would have to trust the girl as well. He motioned the two of them to follow him outside, squatting down to draw in the rain-moistened soil at the edge of the street the symbol found on the uniform patch worn by SGC personnel. He remembered being told in briefings that it was the stargate symbol unique to Earth itself, although dialing a gate address required seven symbols altogether.

When he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. "You will know my friends by this sign, on the arm of their clothing. If they should arrive, you must keep them here until I return." As Tesni translated, Cromwell thought quickly. He needed something she could show them, something that would transcend any language barrier, so there would be no mistaking that he had been present here. Had he been wearing his dog tags, he could have removed one for the purpose, but he and Jack had both handed their tags over to Captain Carter before descending into the gravity well. He'd have been somewhat reluctant even now, given the symbolism involved, but it would have been the logical choice. _Shit._ He could think of only one thing at the moment, an object he was truly loath to part with, even temporarily, in this place. No choice. It was simply the one thing he carried right now that he knew Jack or for that matter anyone else in the US military would recognize. Cromwell was normally far from superstitious, but the item in question did serve as the closest thing to a good luck charm he possessed.

There was nothing else he could think of, though, so he rolled up his right pantleg and reached just inside the top of his sock and boot. It was still there, exactly where he had stuffed it just before leaving the locker room, in the one place he'd been certain that increased gravity wouldn't rip it from his person. He regarded the challenge coin briefly, pursing his lips, before turning to Tegwyn. Taking her hand, he placed the coin in her palm, closing her fingers firmly over it.

"Show them this," he told the girl. "Show this to the leader of the people who wear that symbol. He will know what it means." Tesni translated, and Tegwyn nodded solemnly, her eyes huge. With any luck at all, thought Cromwell, that leader would be Jack himself, and while seeing this particular coin in someone else's possession would probably give him one hell of a turn, Cromwell knew it would also serve to keep him here long enough for their party to return from Dinas Coedwyg. Either that, or it would send Jack storming the countryside searching for him, possibly all the way to Dinas Coedwyg itself, wherever the hell that was. In any case, it would guarantee that Cromwell wouldn't be left behind.

While he was still considering this, Nenniaw and Celyn came out of the building, urging haste. Thunder punctuated their words, still some distance off but promising a storm to come. _Peachy. Just once I'd like to travel in good weather._

The sound of hooves on packed earth caught his attention, and he turned in time to see Ris appear around the corner, leading two horses. He could hear others behind. As Ris approached, Cromwell found himself examining the youth's face. He was badly bruised, to be sure, and carried himself gingerly, but seemed in good enough spirits. Cromwell hoped, however, that Ris wasn't planning to accompany them. The kid deserved a little downtime after last night. Once again, he was glad he hadn't managed to inflict the kind of damage he knew himself to be capable of delivering.

Ris came to a stop before him, handing over the reins of one of the horses. They were stocky, slightly rough-coated creatures, not especially tall but quite solid-appearing — more like ponies, really. The one whose reins Ris gave him was a bay of perhaps thirteen hands, with lively eyes. Cromwell examined the riding tack used here. The bridle was of a style he hadn't seen before, but the biggest difference was the saddle. It was a primitive affair and lacked stirrups. Of course, he realized: the ancestors of the Pridani — and of their mounts for that matter — had likely been taken from Earth long before the stirrup made its way to the British isles. He was probably lucky they had even developed saddles to any extent. He recalled reading in one of his college texts, seemingly a lifetime ago now, that the saddle had been unknown in Britain until somewhere in at least the middle of the first millennium AD, when it was introduced by Roman soldiers, to whom it was also something of a novelty. That had to be more recent than the sixty-odd generation timeframe that Tesni claimed for her people's presence on Tir Awyr. He shook his head in amazement. He'd majored in history out of a keen interest, and although his primary focus had been on military and modern history, the few courses he'd taken detailing the ancient world had been fascinating. He'd never expected to relate to material on late Iron Age cultures in a manner quite this up-close and personal, however.

Ris was saying something. Cromwell still didn't have anything like a firm grasp of Pridanic, but from the tone, it sounded like an apology. For last night? Hell, he was fine. His concern was for the kid, who had clearly come off the worst in their encounter. "Not to worry," he said in Pridanic, hoping he didn't mangle the words too much. "You are well?" That got him a nod and a crooked smile. "Good." He clasped the boy's shoulder, then turned to the task at hand.

The product of a rural childhood, Cromwell had enjoyed trail riding since before he was Ris' age, even riding bareback now and then, but it had been well over twenty years since he'd had the opportunity to spend time around horses on anything resembling a regular basis. He'd found himself on horseback on rare occasion in the course of missions in some of the wilder parts of the globe as well, but the most recent instance was probably four or five years ago. Riding was certainly preferable to slogging on foot in the rain, however, and he was glad of this one small way in which his journey might be eased. Wherever Dinas Coedwyg was, this would get them there and back faster, so if Jack and his team showed up here while they were gone... He noticed that the rest of the party had already mounted, except for Tesni, who came to take the remaining horse from her nephew. Ris was gesturing again, offering him a leg up, but Cromwell shook his head, confident he had this, at least, under control. He grabbed a handful of mane and reins. A leap put him belly-down on the animal's back, his head over the creature's neck. He swung one leg across, pushed upright, and settled into the saddle, which to his surprise was more comfortable than it had appeared, if just barely. Ris helped his aunt to mount, and waved farewell as horses and riders filed out of the village and onto the forest trail, just as the rain began in earnest.

Cromwell tried not to think about how sore he was going to be by the end of the day.


	9. A Matter of Trust

_You must trust and believe in people, or life becomes impossible._ \- Anton Chekhov

 

Tesni found herself impressed. The stranger had come out of nowhere, clearly out of his element, and injured besides. Yet he had managed to maintain his composure, even as he struggled to communicate despite the language barrier. He was a quick study, learning as he went, and teaching her his own speech in the process. While their conversation had of necessity been guarded as well as being somewhat limited due to linguistic differences, she had still gleaned a fair bit of information about him by their interaction. He was clearly a soldier of some sort, the evidence writ large in his bearing, the tones of his speech, and the manner in which he observed his surroundings. He appeared to be perhaps a dozen years her senior, with the indelible, if subtle, marks of experience stamped on his features. She knew the type very well; indeed, she inhabited a world filled with such men — and such women. Individuals who had seen much and done much in the service of their cause and who wore that experience like a mantle. She would wear it herself one day. Her job at present in that service was to assess possible threats, especially from the direction of the _drws rhyng y byd_ , and that made this man who had arrived without warning her responsibility. He was no threat, however; she had determined that early on. He might, in fact, make a formidable addition to their forces, should he find himself remaining, and be so disposed.

It was a gift, her sense for people, and a large part of why she held the position she did. The sole item remaining to be determined was where the stranger stood with regard to the Goa'uld, and Tesni was fairly certain she already knew the answer to that. The immediate change in their interaction upon her floating a test mention of Bel had told her much.

The stranger's altercation with Ris had been the product of poor judgment on Nenniaw's part, and on Ris' as well. Yet even Ris had quickly found respect for the stranger — who, to his own credit, had exhibited a touching concern for her nephew's well-being after the incident. Now the man was her responsibility by guest-right, not to mention by virtue of the fact that at present she was the one person who could communicate clearly with him. She reflected that she most likely would have taken responsibility for him anyway. There was something compelling about him, some element that sparked her curiosity. Right now, however, what he needed most was a friend and advocate among her people, and she was more than willing to take on that role. It was, she told herself, yet another aspect of her job.

She glanced over at the figure sitting straight as an ash pole on a borrowed bay horse, his dark eyes scanning the surrounding forest through a mist of rain. If she looked closely enough, she could still see fatigue lining his face, even as he ignored it. He seemed much improved over last night, however. She had been honestly concerned for him then, as she watched him sitting in the candlelight at her table, ashen-faced and with trembling hands. She hadn't seen that look on anyone in a long time, not since... Well, not in a long time, regardless.

She knew well that refusal to show weakness, that insistence upon pushing past all bounds of fatigue or injury even to the breaking point where the body might of necessity betray its owner, while the mind still raced on. She'd seen it dozens of times, even once or twice in herself. Women were by no means immune. Men, however — the thought came to her unbidden — were more prone to its grip, at least in her experience. It was this which she had seen scant hours ago in the stranger's countenance, by the amber light of a lone candle. Not for the first time, she reflected on the irony of how a desire to seem invulnerable could so often sow the seeds of its own betrayal. She had felt a keen need to reassure him that in her presence he might let himself rest without losing face. But how?

Among Tesni's people, touch was as important as breath. She'd sensed from his body language that this was not so among the stranger's tribe, whoever they were. Nevertheless, she took the chance, and found that a touch stilled him as words alone could not, and so she had finally moved him to seek his bed and the rest he needed. He had fallen asleep almost immediately upon lying down, and after covering him with a blanket against the approaching chill, she had left him to find what healing he could in the hours remaining before dawn.

When she found him already awake in the early light, she was struck by the fact that even after only a few hours of sleep, he appeared ready to face the day and its challenges. She would have given him more time to recover if she could, but necessity dictated they leave early to journey to Dinas Coedwyg. She had given her word that he would be neither harmed nor detained, and she intended to keep that promise. When they returned to Llanavon, assuming his mysterious friends had not arrived, she would find a way to give the stranger some well-deserved peace and quiet so that he could rest. Assuming, of course, that he would.

  


***

The rain had abated about halfway through their journey, leaving the trees dripping and the trail muddy. The light brightened as the cloud cover moved off, and the air soon warmed, turning humid as the moisture evaporated. Cromwell shed the blue cloak, spreading it a bit over his horse's withers in the hope that it might dry. Still clad in the black uniform he'd been wearing for what was to him two days now, he was uncomfortable in the muggy air, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. "Does the weather here do this a lot?" he asked Tesni, who rode next to him.

"Change abruptly? Yes, that is common," she replied. "In winter, it is worse. Many sudden snows."

 _Sounds like Colorado. Though with any luck, I'll be long gone from here by then._ As they rode through a large clearing, Cromwell looked toward the sky, trying to get a fix on the position of the sun. He glanced at his watch, calculating how long a day here might be. According to the sun, it appeared to still be early morning. His watch said that not quite twenty-two hours had passed since his arrival in Llanavon. This confirmed his earlier guess: a day here on Tir Awyr must be of similar length to one on Earth. "Tesni, how long are the years here? How many days?"

She looked at him, puzzled. "Three hundred fifty-eight, why?"

 _Very Earthlike._ "Just curious. I wanted to compare it to my own world. They are similar. You said this is summer, and I assume you track the seasons by stars and the sun, no?"

"Yes, of course. Midsummer passed twenty-seven days ago."

Knowledge, even knowledge he was unlikely to really use, always helped to orient him, giving at least the illusion of some control over his situation. He knew it might remain largely illusory for the time being, but that could change at a moment's notice.

Up ahead, the trail wound back into the trees, traveling uphill now. It was wider here, however, and the forest soon gave way to another clearing, this one much larger than the one occupied by Llanavon. Another fortified wall arose ahead of them, encircling what appeared to be a large settlement similar to the hill forts whose remains Cromwell knew dotted much of Europe. This, then, must be Dinas Coedwyg.

They entered the settlement via a gate set into the earth and timber walls. Within, the streets were similar to those of Llanavon, lined with buildings constructed of wood and of stone. A wide avenue led through the center of town, with narrower lanes turning off along its length. People were out and about on the streets, a few turning to watch as the mounted party passed by.

They hadn't gone more than a few blocks before Nenniaw led them down a side street, stopping at a square stone building. Three youths of around Ris' age appeared to take their horses as they dismounted. Cromwell was annoyed to find that he was, indeed, sore from the ride. There was nothing for it, however, but to go on. He turned to offer Tesni a hand in dismounting, only to find her already slipping gracefully to the ground. _She probably does this all the time. Damn, I need to get up to speed, and quickly, if I'm going to be here for any length._ He stretched protesting muscles as Nenniaw gathered the group.

At his elbow, Tesni outlined their agenda. "The _cadlywydd_ will most likely meet with Morcant, Nenniaw and Dynawd first. Celyn has business of his own to attend to, though he may be asked to join the others before that. You and I will wait until the _cadlywydd_ has time for us, but it should not be too long. While we are waiting, we can find someplace to sit and talk, and I can teach you more of our tongue, if you want. I know you are still tired, but — "

Cromwell cut her off. "Not all that much." Tesni shot him what he knew to be a disbelieving look, but she didn't comment. Nenniaw and Celyn set off toward the door of the building before them, and the rest followed.

It was cooler inside. A short hallway led them to a sort of reception area furnished with a couple of tables and actual chairs rather than benches. A desk stood off to one side, an earnest-faced young man in gray seated behind it. Tesni ushered Cromwell toward a seat at one of the tables, before procuring tea for them from a sideboard. Cromwell watched as Nenniaw approached the desk and consulted with the clerk, who gestured toward a set of stairs. Nenniaw, accompanied by Morcant and Dynawd, mounted the stairs and disappeared. Celyn remained speaking with the clerk for a moment longer, before setting off down another hallway.

Cromwell fidgeted in his chair, still trying to work a cramp out of his left thigh, as Tesni deposited a cup of tea on the table in front of him. She eyed him curiously. "Are you sure you are all right?"

"Yes. It has been some time since I last rode a horse. My legs are unaccustomed to it, but I will adjust." _Hell, may as well tell her the truth; it isn't as if she can't see for herself._

Understanding bloomed on her face, along with a measure of sympathy. "Ah. Let me see if I can find some _rhisgl helyg_. That may help."

He had to think for a moment before his memory provided the probable translation. _Willow bark?_ "What is that for?" In fact, the mention of willow bark rang a bell. Something he'd once read...

"It eases pain, but leaves the mind sharp. Stay here; I will be right back. There is a" — she used a word with which he was completely unfamiliar — "just along the street." She was gone before he could say anything to stop her. He settled for staring out the nearby window, drinking tea, occasionally glancing back around the room as people came and went. For all the world, it reminded him of office waiting areas anywhere. But for the decor and the lack of modern technology, he could almost have been in the admin building of nearly any base where he'd been stationed, back home. _Well, except there I could score a cup of honest-to-God coffee. Probably bum a smoke, too._

Tesni returned shortly, clutching a glass bottle small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, stoppered with a tiny cork. She opened it and tipped several drops of liquid into what was left of his tea. "There. Drink that and see if it helps."

He took a tentative sip. Whatever she had added gave the tea a bitter taste similar to what you might expect from chewing on aspirin. _That's it,_ he realized. Some article, in some magazine he'd read over the years, discussed the botanical origins of several well-known medications. If memory served, aspirin had been developed from a compound found in willow bark, which the article claimed had been used for thousands of years.

"Tastes awful, but if it helps..." He shrugged. "Thank you."

She smiled, handing him the small bottle of tincture. "Here, you keep this. The same amount, twice more in the course of the day, should be useful."

 _Modern medicine it ain't, but close enough. Might help what's left of this headache, too._ He accepted the bottle, tucking it into a pocket and thanking her again. _These people actually seem to have a lot on the ball._

Tesni got both of them more tea. "With any luck, we will be done here soon, though I cannot say I am completely unhappy to be visiting." She glanced around the room. "The _cadlywydd_ does not get here often, of late."

Cromwell was still confused. "He is not someone local, then?"

"Well, he was at one time, but he spends much of his time quite far away lately." She sipped from her cup, her expression thoughtful. "Tell me, how long have you been a soldier?"

 _There_ was the question he sensed she'd been wanting to ask, ever since he realized she could tell he was a military man. "Actually, I would use a different term, but it wouldn't translate. 'Soldier' is apt enough. Twenty-four years, so far. Nearly my entire adult life, and I spent three years before that preparing for the job." Inwardly, Cromwell shrugged. He wasn't giving away any real information there. If it was obvious to her what he was, more or less, then it was equally obvious that he'd been at it for quite some time. He was well aware that at forty-six, he didn't exactly look like a callow youth.

"And there is much for a soldier to do, on your world?"

"A little too much, sometimes." He shifted in his chair. "Why do you ask?"

She smiled. "Like your earlier questions, curiosity. You know I have never left Tir Awyr. One day, perhaps I will. How many times have you been away from your world?"

"This is the first time. As I said, it was accidental. I was never supposed to be here, and I just want to go home. No offense to your hospitality, you understand, but this is not a trip I planned on making."

She laughed. "No offense taken. I am sure I would feel the same, in your place."

They never did get around to more language lessons before Nenniaw reappeared to usher them upstairs and into what appeared to be a conference room. Broad windows provided light, and a table with several chairs dominated the center of the room. Judging from the teapot and cups occupying space in front of some of the chairs, some meeting or other had recently concluded. Only one other person was currently present, however. A man of about Cromwell's own height and probably just a bit older, to judge by his face, stood near the table. He had light brown hair shading heavily to silver at the temples, and was clad in what appeared to be a uniform — a gray tunic, with matching trousers tucked into boots that reached above mid-calf. He was studying a small, flat metallic object, a portion of which glowed, but blinked and looked up as Tesni entered the room, her guest in tow. Tucking the object into a belt pouch, he came to greet her. "Tesni, _fy nith_. It is good to see you again." A smile lit his face as he clasped her shoulders.

Cromwell's mind raced. _'Niece'? Wait, this guy's her uncle?_

Tesni was speaking. "Hello, Uncle. It is good to see you too. It has been too long."

Nenniaw was still at the door. The other man waved in his direction. "You may leave us." Nenniaw frowned slightly but withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Tesni introduced them. "Frehnk — " she stumbled again on the unfamiliar vowel " — this is _cadlywydd_ Cadogan ap Cynan. Uncle, this is the newcomer I am sure Nenniaw mentioned. Arriving as he did, when he did, Nenniaw insisted he be brought to you. His name is — "

Cromwell interrupted, taking a step forward. "Frank Cromwell." He continued in what he hoped was passable Pridanic. "My pleasure to meet you."

The other man's eyebrows went up, his smile broadening. Cromwell had guessed right: apparently, the _cadlywydd_ appreciated direct approaches. He reached out to clasp Cromwell's arm just above the elbow, his grip firm. "The pleasure is mine. I am told you arrived yesterday from off-world, yes?"

Cromwell nodded. "I did, though it was completely by accident. There was a problem with our _drws rhyng y byd_ , and it wasn't working correctly. I was trying to help resolve the problem. The device was active at the time. I got too close, and found myself on your world." He'd decided to stick to the truth, or something like it, up until that point beyond which telling the truth might endanger Earth. He could only hope that his very presence here was not enough to do that already.

Cadogan's expression became puzzled. "And you could not return?"

"Only because I lack the address for my world. I have never traveled through the _drws rhyng y byd_ before this; very few of my people do. I do expect someone to come looking for me soon, and when that happens, I intend to leave here and return home with them."

Tesni broke in, speaking once again in Pridanic too fast and complicated for Cromwell to completely grasp. It sounded, though, as if she might be recounting his explanation of how and why he'd ended up on Tir Awyr to the _cadlywydd_... the general, or whatever he was... her uncle. _No wonder she was so sure he'd believe her. They appear to be close, and I'm guessing he trusts her. This certainly helps_ me, _that's for sure._

Cadogan was nodding as Tesni spoke, occasionally darting glances in Cromwell's direction. With each glance, Cromwell got the impression he was being sized up, examined, analyzed. When she finished her explanation, he nodded again, turning back to Cromwell. "My niece tells me that she has been teaching you our language. May I say that you are doing a fair job with it, for someone who only arrived yesterday." The tone was carefully neutral, but his expression invited explanation.

 _Yeah, this is where it gets hairy._ Cromwell shrugged, schooling his face to innocence. "It is very similar to another language I once learned."

"I see. She also tells me that you are a military man of some experience."

Cromwell was saved from having to respond to that by a knock on the door. An aide rushed in to whisper in the _cadlywydd's_ ear. Cadogan's expression grew alarmed. "Are they certain?" he asked the aide aloud.

The aide glanced at Tesni and Cromwell. "Yes, yes, go ahead," said Cadogan, impatiently.

"They are certain, _cadlywydd_."

"How many?"

"Twenty-six altogether. A small group have taken the path toward Llanavon, while the rest remain stationary near the compass circle."

 _The SGC sent that many people? The hell?_ Cromwell turned to Tesni, about to suggest they light out for Llanavon, but she held up a hand to silence him. Something in her look made him hold his tongue.

Cadogan was still questioning his aide. "All Jaffa, or are there Goa'uld with them?"

"All Jaffa. But that is a large group. They may be here to collect tribute, although it is not one of the normal times for that."

 _Jaffa?_ Cromwell and Tesni shared a look. _Shit. I was really hoping to avoid any of those guys while I was here._

Striking a fist on the table, Cadogan uttered a word Cromwell had never heard before. " _Mai'tac!_ " It didn't sound Pridanic, but his meaning was clear regardless: the man was furious. The _cadlywydd_ bowed his head for a second. When he raised it, his hazel eyes had taken on an entirely different appearance, as though someone else were looking out of them. Turning to the aide, he spoke in an unfamiliar language, this time in a deep, flanged voice that carried harmonic under- and overtones.

Cromwell's skin crawled. The language might be unfamiliar, but he'd heard recordings of such voices, supplied by the Air Force so that he and his men would recognize the enemy if they heard them. _Jesus Christ, he's a fucking Goa'uld!_

He stole a look at Tesni. She was watching her uncle, or whoever was currently in control of her uncle's body, with concern. "Bel has sent twenty-six Jaffa to Tir Awyr?" she asked. "Why? Tribute is not due again until the harvest festival."

{"I have no idea. We had no report that this was coming."}* The reply was still in the Goa'uld voice, though the language was Pridanic.

Tesni shook her head. "Had you no one close to Bel at the moment, Sabar?"

{"We did, but there has been no report from him in several weeks."} Cadogan — or the Goa'uld, rather — turned back to his aide, speaking again in that other language, which must be Goa'uld. His aide replied in the same tongue but a completely human voice, before hurrying away.

Cromwell took this in, all the while trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do next. _What have I gotten myself into? Who the fuck is this_ Sabar _character?_

Cadogan bowed his head again, closing his eyes briefly. When he looked up, he spoke again to Tesni, this time in a normal human voice. "Well, this changes our plans somewhat." He glanced once more at Cromwell. "Your guest would seem to — "

Tesni cut him off. "He has nothing to do with any of this, Uncle."

Cadogan's expression was skeptical. "You can be so certain?"

She nodded. "Yes. You have always trusted my sense for people before this. You would doubt me now?"

The _cadlywydd_ simply looked at her for a long moment, before turning his gaze on Cromwell, who carefully kept his face impassive, despite the alarm bells still ringing in his mind. Cadogan finally turned back to his niece. "No, I believe you are correct. Perhaps more importantly, Sabar trusts you as well." He paused a beat. "A part of me would prefer you remain here in Dinas Coedwyg, for safety's sake, until we find out more of what's going on, but I know better than to ask that."

Tesni gave him a small, tight smile. "You may order it, of course, and leave me no choice, but you know I wish you wouldn't."

"Nor shall I. Take your guest and go. Put him to use if he is willing; an extra set of hands will not go amiss right now, though I expect you will need to enlighten him somewhat. You will find Nenniaw and the others at the armory, if Gerlad has located them by now and passed along what Sabar told him. Otherwise, you are to locate them yourself and convey what has happened. Tell Nenniaw, if Gerlad has not, to draw arms and take whomever is available with him. We will meet you on the road." He ushered them toward the door as he spoke, dismissing them both with a curt nod.

Once in the hallway, Tesni hurried toward the stairs, descending them rapidly with Cromwell at her heels. The reception lobby was deserted, he noticed as they passed through on their way toward the door.

Outside the building, Cromwell grabbed Tesni's shoulder, halting her and spinning her to face him. "You want to tell me just what is going on here?" he demanded.

She looked pointedly at his hand on her shoulder, then stared him full in the face, her eyes blazing. "I had planned to, but you _will_ let go of me."

He withdrew his hand, instead fixing her with his best _you've got two seconds to explain yourself_ scowl. She glared back at him for a second, then looked skyward briefly before bringing her gaze back to his, more calmly this time. "Follow me, and I will explain as we go."

He shook his head, his jaw set. "Now, or I go nowhere with you."

Tesni sighed, visibly annoyed. "Do you still trust me?"

"I have no idea who I am supposed to trust right now. I was not expecting the _cadlywydd_ to be your uncle. Nor did I expect him to be a Goa'uld."

"He is not Goa'uld," she replied coldly.

"Then explain that voice."

She gave him a long, appraising look. "Your people do not serve the Goa'uld."

"No, we most certainly do not."

"Nor do mine, or at the very least, not willingly nor for much longer." she responded. "I saw your face when you heard Sabar speak. You tried to hide your reaction, but you were not immediately successful. I saw not awe, not worship, not even fear. Only revulsion."

"Yes, I find them repulsive! But if Sabar is not Goa'uld, then what is he, Tesni?" It was more of a challenge than a question.

"Cadogan has dedicated his life to fighting against the Goa'uld, toward the freedom of our people. Sabar is of the Tok'ra, a people identical to the Goa'uld, except that they oppose the Goa'uld and their ways. A small group of them have allied with us, and Sabar is their leader. Cadogan is his willing host, and leads the Pridani, as well as our other allies, in this fight."

 _The Tok'ra?_ Cromwell recalled a report he'd read, outlining the SGC's discovery that there existed a faction of the Goa'uld species who stood in opposition to the System Lords and their enslavement of humans, and who existed in a truly symbiotic relationship with their human hosts. _If the Tok'ra are active on this world..._

"Yesterday, you told me Bel was a god," he stated. "Why?"

"To gauge your response, so that I could know whether you viewed the Goa'uld as gods to be served, or as an enemy to be fought. You reacted as I had hoped you would. You ceased speaking of your world and people, and seemed bothered by my mention of Bel. That told me you and your people must be opposed either to the Goa'uld overall, or at least to Bel. Your reaction to Sabar just now told the rest of the tale. From it, I know that you oppose the Goa'uld themselves. That is good, because so do we. Bel only _thinks_ he should be a god. My uncle and I, and a great many others, disagree with him. We had our fill of slavery long ago, and we will be once more free."

Cromwell was taken aback. Tesni was far more perceptive than he'd given her credit for. Apparently, she had been testing him all along. _Well, didn't she tell you that she would vouch for you with the_ cadlywydd _? That implies it's her job to decide whether a stranger like you is friend or foe. She's pegged you correctly, too. The enemy of your enemy is your friend, especially in this case._

"Fair enough," he conceded. "So you and your people are in rebellion against Bel."

"We are. And unfortunately, my family and friends may be under attack right this moment by some of his Jaffa. I plan to do something about it. You have two choices: either help, or stay out of the way. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to carry out the _cadlywydd's_ orders." Tesni turned on her heel and headed off in the direction she'd been going when Cromwell stopped her.

He stared after her for a beat, then shook his head abruptly and followed. _'Stay out of the way'? Not friggin' likely._ After all, if for some reason he didn't get off this world anytime soon, these people's fight would be his own anyway. No time like the present to make it clear where he stood. _Congratulations, Cromwell. Three weeks ago, you were thinking about the days when you and your team used to see regular action, before taking the job as the SGC's backup plan, and you were bored. Well, you've sure as hell found some action now._

As Cadogan had hoped, they found Nenniaw and the rest of their party at the armory, in the cellar of a low stone building just down from the one where he and Tesni had met with the _cadlywydd_. A couple of dozen other people were there, too; mostly men, but with a few women among them. _They send women into ground combat situations here?_ he thought. A second later, the realization struck him. _Well, hell, the SGC does it, too, if half of what I've read in those mission reports is accurate._

Cromwell watched as weapons were distributed. He recognized both the long staff-like weapons and the smaller _zat'nik'tels_ from reports and photos he'd been shown while being familiarized with things he might find himself encountering if called into the SGC to deal with an alien incursion. He'd never handled a physical example of either, however, and observed with interest as others checked their weapons over.

A messenger appeared, speaking quickly to Nenniaw, then leaving. Nenniaw gathered Dynawd, Celyn, Tesni and a couple of others. Cromwell shadowed Tesni. Nenniaw gave Cromwell an odd look, until Tesni took the other man aside, speaking too quietly for Cromwell to follow. From Nenniaw's expression, Cromwell surmised that she was relating the fact that Cadogan had accepted Tesni's assessment of him over Nenniaw's own. _Fine, Nenniaw; I get it. You don't trust me. Your CO apparently does, though. And this may or may not actually be my fight, but it appears we share an enemy, so at least for the moment we're in this together. Deal with it._

Tesni returned to Cromwell's side as Nenniaw related what the messenger had said. "Scouts with short-range communicators say that only ten Jaffa remain at the compass circle. The remainder have entered the forest. Unfortunately, they have split into two parties. Eight are approaching Llanavon. For the moment, the other eight appear to be heading north, possibly on their way to the mines."

Cromwell found himself surprised at the thought of modern communications in the hands of people from what appeared to be a low-tech culture. _The Tok'ra must be giving them military tech, like the communicators and the weapons. My guess is this is a completely underground movement, and that's why they keep things low-tech on the surface. I wonder how long this rebellion's been going on, and why the Goa'uld haven't simply quashed it before this?_ He was curious to learn more.

Tesni had left him for a moment, and now approached with a staff weapon. "Do you know how to use the _ma'tok_?" she asked.

"I have seen them, but never used one; my people have different weapons. Show me."

She did. The weapon had no scope and no sight, Cromwell noted. For someone accustomed to late twentieth-century firearms, it was a big adjustment — but really, what choice was there? Anything beat being sidelined. He didn't think he could stand that.

Soon they were on the road, headed directly toward the stargate this time, by a different trail. Nenniaw led their party, while Celyn had taken another back toward Llanavon. As they moved out at a brisk canter, Cromwell was grateful for the willow bark tincture Tesni had provided him. Not that it did much more than take the edge off, especially when they slowed to a trot periodically. There was no help for it, however; the stargate had to be about ten miles away, and riding over distance with any useful speed required varying a mount's gait. Somehow, he managed it, pushing the pain of outraged muscles from his mind. _Not much choice, really. I'd hardly have stayed behind in Dinas Coedwyg by myself. Never thought I'd miss that one Humvee in the motor pool with the busted seat springs, though._

Once again, he reflected on the bizarre situation in which he found himself. _Energy weapons, in the hands of people on horseback, with spotty communications. A half-alien leader with a split personality. And one guy who doesn't even belong here. All of us up against a bunch of fanatical armored thugs with more energy weapons. Peachy. No, really, I'd like to wake up now._

They hadn't gone more than a mile or so before the sound of hoofbeats at a gallop closed from behind. Cadogan, his aide — Gerlad? — and two others joined them, reining their mounts to match pace with Nenniaw's. Cromwell and Tesni listened as the _cadlywydd_ conferred with the local commander. "More trouble," began Cadogan, speaking in his own voice. "Apparently, they have come for palace slaves this time, at least in part. The Jaffa who went to Llanavon broke into two smaller groups. Four continued on, taking the western trail toward Bren Argoed. The other four remained in Llanavon, rounding up children over nine. They have at least a dozen, and when challenged, the Jaffa threatened to kill them before their families' eyes. Kidnapping, hostage situation, whatever you want to call it, this is ugly."

Nenniaw uttered a word Cromwell couldn't translate, and Tesni didn't bother to try. There was no need. Dynawd, also listening, had gone stark white; whether with fear or fury was anyone's guess. Cromwell surmised the man likely had children in the village.

"What of the other eight Jaffa?" Cromwell asked.

Cadogan turned in the saddle, shooting him a curious look. "At last sighting, they were still headed toward the mines, away from the compass circle toward the north," he replied.

"On foot?"

Cadogan nodded. "Naturally."

 _Ten at the stargate, four holding hostages in the village, four on their way west to what must be another village, and eight headed north. Strange way for them to break up their numbers, but if we can take advantage of it, good._ Cromwell glanced around. _We've got twenty people here, not counting Cadogan and Gerlad, and I saw at least fifteen move out with Celyn when he left. Celyn's people and ours are all mounted, so potentially we've got speed on our side, though obviously any actual fighting will be on foot. On the other hand, I know the Jaffa wear armor. Supposedly these weapons are effective against it, but I've never seen them in action. Shit. What the_ hell _am I getting myself into here?_

He was glad he wasn't the one in charge. The real question was, what would Cadogan do?

Tesni spoke to him, her voice low. "We have continued to supply Bel with tribute for many years, including naquadah from the mines, and other useful or valuable items, so that he would not suspect we were building up to outright rebellion. It has bought us time, but by now we were nearly ready to move openly, and giving him our children for his strange taste in slaves is more than we will stand for. He has already taken far too many of us as it is."

Cromwell nodded. "Is anyone in the village armed?"

"There is a hidden cache of weapons, and everyone in Llanavon over the age of sixteen knows how to use them, but with children held hostage, no one will dare."

"Of course." _Dammit, this has all the makings of a disaster. I can feel it._

Cadogan directed the party to continue on toward the stargate. "We may be able to gain control of the _chappa'ai_. It will be up to Celyn to find some way to deal with the hostage situation in Llanavon. Runners will have already been sent by another route to alert Bren Argoed; with luck and forewarning, they can take care of the other four Jaffa."

Cromwell looked at Tesni. "What is a 'chappa'ai'?"

"The word used by Tok'ra, Goa'uld and Jaffa for the _drws rhyng y byd_. It is not uncommon for the _cadlywydd_ to use Sabar's words for such things."

"I see." Cromwell wished there were a foolproof way to deal with what they were up against. He wondered if the Jaffa had rounded up teens among the would-be slaves. The thought of any of the Pridani villagers — especially children — as slaves or hostages was bad enough, but imagining Ris or Tegwyn in that situation made it even worse.

Within the hour, the party reached the near vicinity of the stargate, tying their mounts well back in the forest. Cadogan sent scouts ahead; they reported ten Jaffa still guarding the compass circle and the gate. "Something is odd about all of this," the Pridani leader observed, speaking again to Nenniaw and Dynawd. Tesni and Cromwell stood just a few feet away, neither party to nor excluded from the conversation. "Under normal circumstances, we might almost have expected a vessel to be sent if Bel were planning to take large amounts of cargo, such as ore from the mine, but we do know he has lost ships recently, thanks to the efforts of our operatives."

Nenniaw nodded at this, something like a smile crossing his face momentarily. "Then the Gallaeci were successful?"

It was Sabar who replied, Cadogan's head bowing briefly before the harmonic voice was heard, this time sounding oddly quiet to Cromwell's ears. {"They were, at least to a limited extent. This has been a long, slow business of late, but waiting until we could relieve him of some of his resources was definitely best."} The Tok'ra looked from Nenniaw to Dynawd and back. {"My guess is that Bel will wish to step up mine production to compensate for the naquadah lost. He was not expected to move quite this soon, however. And as for the slave raid — "} He broke off, shaking his head. {"Regardless. We need control of the _chappa'ai_. For the moment, we appear to have the element of surprise. Let us not waste it."}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A Note On Tok'ra Speech_
> 
> I will use the following convention for indicating Tok'ra (or for that matter, Goa'uld) symbiote speech as opposed to host speech: Material enclosed in a combination of { } brackets and " " quotation marks is spoken aloud in the flanged, harmonic-laced symbiote voice. If at any point I am writing from within the POV of a Tok'ra and his/her host, I will indicate the non-voiced mental speech of the symbiote to the host by simply using { } brackets, without quotation marks, while the internal unvoiced speech of host to symbiote will simply be italicized.


	10. Disclosure

_What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies._ \- Aristotle

 

SG-1 continued along the trail. Most of the trees appeared tall, characteristic of an old-growth forest, but from time to time, they noticed odd depressions in the forest floor, where the trees seemed somewhat smaller and younger than those surrounding them. It looked as if something had wiped out patches of older trees at some point in the past, and then the areas had regrown.

"Okay, campers, what does that look like to you?" O'Neill asked, indicating the stands of younger vegetation mixed with the older trees.

Teal'c replied. "If not for the depressions, they could be the result of anything from selected timber felling to small, controlled fires in the area at some point, possibly quite some time ago."

The colonel regarded him thoughtfully. "But since we see the depressions...?"

"It would appear these may be scars from orbital or airborne weapon strikes. I know nothing about this world, O'Neill, but it may have fallen under attack by warships in the past, possibly Goa'uld."

O'Neill scowled. "That's what I was thinking, too."

Carter chimed in. "If so, it must have been decades ago. Those areas look pretty well grown over."

"Indeed," acknowledged the Jaffa. "I would estimate at least twenty to thirty years, depending upon how quickly the local vegetation grows."

Carter paused, looking around. "Well, I'm no expert on trees, but I'm seeing everything from oak and ash to birch and willow, along with some evergreens and a lot of species I don't recognize. It's probably not so much that what grows in those depressions is terribly young, than that the surrounding forest is very old. Still, we probably wouldn't even have noticed if it weren't for the depressions themselves. Whatever happened here could have been a long time ago. It's possible the Goa'uld don't even come here anymore."

"Sam, I hope you're right," said Daniel.

The trail continued on until it came to a shallow river and a wooden bridge. On the other side of the river, structures were visible through a screen of trees. O'Neill brought a pair of binoculars up to his eyes. Sure enough, he could see a few human figures just outside of what looked like a defensive wall surrounding a largish settlement. "Looks like we've found the natives, kids."

Daniel took a look through O'Neill's binoculars, as Carter brought out her own. "Seems like a good-sized village," Daniel observed. "Some one- and two-story wooden houses are visible through that open gate, and it looks like it could support a decent population, I think."

The colonel looked at his team and shrugged. "Okay, let's go say hello, and hope they're friendly."

They crossed the bridge. As they reached the other side, a young man with fair skin and reddish hair approached them, his expression curious. He spoke words that sounded like a greeting. Daniel's brow furrowed. The young man spoke again. This time he appeared to be asking a question.

"Well, Daniel?" O'Neill's voice was impatient.

"I don't know, Jack. It sounds sort of like a Celtic language, possibly Brythonic in origin, but I can't be sure just yet." The linguist essayed a couple of phrases. The other man's face took on a puzzled expression. Daniel tried again.

While Daniel and the villager attempted to breach the language barrier, O'Neill glanced around the area. Several more of the odd depressions they'd noticed dotted the nearby landscape. From what he could see of the settlement, it wasn't only the forest that had much younger parts. Perhaps the newer buildings filled in places where older ones had been destroyed in the same attack.

"Hey, guys?" Daniel's voice cut into the colonel's thoughts. "I think I'm getting somewhere. We've been invited into the village for a visit. It's called Llanavon. Basically, it means 'river village'."

"Pretty name, at least until you translate it," Carter commented.

The language of the villagers turned out indeed to be a Brythonic tongue, in the same language family as Welsh. Seated around a table in a structure reminiscent of a picnic pavilion with a thatched roof, speaking with their host — whose name was Rhodri — SG-1 drew curious looks from some of the villagers passing or working nearby. Overall, however, they were treated courteously, and eventually Daniel managed to make some real inroads on the communication front.

One thing that was conspicuously absent was any sign of Colonel Cromwell. Daniel inquired about the arrival through the stargate of a man dressed in black, conveying O'Neill's description of Cromwell to the red-haired man, only to be met with assurances that no one meeting his description had been among recent arrivals through the gate. Apparently, a number of travellers did come and go from time to time, but it appeared that no one had seen the Colonel. There was no reference to Goa'uld among the travellers, either, however. It sounded as if the inhabitants of this world and an unknown number of others made some use of the stargate for their own purposes.

O'Neill made a face, drumming his fingers on the table. If he noticed the odd looks he was receiving from the other members of his team, he did his best to ignore them. "I knew I should have taken the time to pull a photo still from the base security system. Cromwell has to have been captured on camera somewhere along the way while he was in there."

"Jack, we can always get one and make another trip back here with it," suggested Daniel. "Rhodri appears to think there are some local officials who would be interested in pursuing negotiations with us for trade. This world may well have minerals or other resources that we could use. Besides, I'd like to study their culture. If we bring along that photo, we can show it to more people and possibly find someone who has seen Colonel Cromwell. After all, we have no guarantee that he came anywhere near this village. There could be others nearby, and it's possible someone there may have seen him."

"Ask them what other settlements are nearby, and we'll do that," O'Neill instructed him.

 

***

 

After promising Rhodri that they would return, SG-1 left Llanavon, heading back along the trail that had brought them there. Not far from the village, O'Neill paused to radio Barber and SG-5, only to learn that they'd turned up no sign of Cromwell. He pulled a face as he put the radio away, then turned to his team, pointedly refusing to acknowledge their concerned expressions. "Well, so far SG-5's got a big fat goose egg." He glanced around. "I noticed a number of other, fainter trails crisscrossing this one on our way in. There's plenty of daylight left, so let's explore a short way down each one as we head back. It can't hurt."

They did so, with little result. As the day wore on, Carter, Daniel and Teal'c noted that the colonel was becoming more restless than usual, and a bit short-tempered. Just past mid-afternoon, he called for a break. They'd traveled perhaps a mile down one of the larger side trails, only to find it meeting a wider trail not unlike that which they had originally followed from the stargate to Llanavon. Where the trails met, another bridge spanned a small gully through which ran a stream, probably a tributary of the river which flowed past Llanavon.

Daniel set about examining some carvings on the railing posts of the bridge, while Teal'c simply took up a station near its center, staring off into the forest, alert for any danger that might come their way. Carter, infected by the restlessness that seemed to be plaguing her CO, made her way down to the streambank below the bridge, where she seated herself on a large rock and stared into the water.

One thing this world seemed to have going for it was an abundance of fish and game, at least here in this woodland, she reflected. As they tramped through the forest, they'd seen deer, rabbits, pheasant, and any number of other creatures that must have been transplanted to the planet along with the humans, however long ago that had occurred. Gazing into the stream, she noted that several fish of various types were swimming about. The largest of them somewhat resembled the koi she'd seen in the artificial pond at a Japanese restaurant she'd recently visited, minus the gaudy coloring. It was sort of a silvery gray, and swam about poking its head into stands of waterweed and under rocks, likely searching for food.

O'Neill joined her on the bank. "What are you looking at?" he asked.

"Nothing, really. Just watching fish feed. I'm surprised the water's so clear, with them stirring up the bottom like that."

He looked down, watching the fish. They passed a moment or two in silence before the colonel leaned farther over the water's edge. "What's that?"

"What's what, sir?"

O'Neill pointed. "There's something shiny in the water. Kind of metallic-looking."

Carter looked in the direction he was pointing. Sure enough, she could just make out the rounded edge of a small object half-buried in the silt not more than eighteen inches from the bank. "I see it."

"Daniel will probably be in seventh heaven if that's a coin or some other artifact," the colonel observed. "Somebody may as well be happy on this mission." With that, he planted a boot on a flat rock jutting from the water, balancing his weight between there and the bank. He reached down into the water, and closed his hand on the object. Splashing it in the water cleared away the silt and left the metallic object in his palm, cleaned of debris. As he lifted it from the stream, Carter got a glimpse of silvery metal and what appeared to be colorful lacquer before her CO gasped, nearly dropping the object.

"Sir, is that what it looks like?"

Mutely, O'Neill stepped back onto the muddy bank and opened his hand so his 2IC could see for herself. There, nestled in his palm, was a largish metallic coin, part of its design filled in with color. Carter had seen plenty of similar coins over the course of her military career. She wasn't familiar with the unit designation on this one, but it was clearly an Air Force challenge coin, somewhat scratched and worn from years of being carried.

O'Neill muttered under his breath. "Christ, Frank, where the hell are you?"

Carter looked at him. "That belongs to Colonel Cromwell?"

Her CO fixed her with an unreadable look. "You can think of someone else who might have come this way with one of these, Carter?"

She blushed. "Sorry, sir. It was a rhetorical question."

"I knew that." Jack massaged his forehead. "Seeing this is a surprise, that's all. I've got one exactly like it sitting in the back of a drawer, at home." As Carter watched, his expression became guarded, as if he were suddenly aware that he'd divulged more than he'd intended.

"At least we know for sure that he made it here," she said.

"Yeah, but now I want to know what was going on to make him lose this in a stream." He pocketed the coin securely. "Let's go tell Daniel and Teal'c."

The four of them, with the help of a couple members of SG-5 called in for the purpose, spent two hours searching up and down the streambank and along the trail in both directions, to no avail. As the sun lowered and the woodland fell into shadows, the party headed back to the stargate. O'Neill ordered SG-5 to return through the gate and report to General Hammond, while SG-1 remained on the planet overnight, camped near the stargate. The search would resume in the morning, when SG-5 returned with still photos gleaned from the SGC's security cameras. Hammond could pull them, O'Neill knew. He reasoned that someone on this world had to have seen Cromwell by now, and he was damn well going to find out who, and learn what had become of his friend.

  


***

  


The evening was warm, and they'd built only a small campfire. O'Neill lay on the grass not far from the fire, his field jacket rolled up and propped against the log behind him. He rested his head on the jacket, staring at the worn challenge coin as he turned it over and over between his fingers, as though handling it would somehow summon its owner from thin air, like a genie from a rubbed lamp.

Having Frank Cromwell show up under Cheyenne Mountain had been a shock, to be sure. O'Neill hadn't seen the man since 1991; hadn't wanted to. Eight years without contact had done little to heal the psychological wound left by what had happened in Iraq, though it had allowed him to shove most of the effects into a rear compartment of his mind. The nightmares still came, though, if perhaps less often than at first. With them came the anger, the feeling of utter betrayal at the hand of a man he'd considered closer than a brother, each time as fresh and raw as if it had just happened yesterday. They had always promised each other, and everyone they served with, that no one would be left behind on a mission. O'Neill had risked his own life on more than one occasion to honor that promise...

> The sound of gunfire echoed from the rocks just outside the small cave. As caves went, it wasn't much; more like a hollow in the rock face, just off the trail leading along the very edge of the high cliffs. Enough to provide shelter from the elements, and hopefully, from unfriendly eyes as well. Jack knelt near the entrance, scanning the landscape outside for danger. He kept an eye on the sky, too, watching and listening for the approach of the helicopter that would take them on the final leg of their journey out of this hellish place.
> 
> The sound of coughing came from behind him, and he turned, scrambling back into the further recesses of their shelter. Frank leaned lopsidedly against the cave wall, his face a study in pain. As Jack approached, Frank grimaced and coughed again, a liquid sound.
> 
> "Easy, Frank." O'Neill reached his friend's side, resting his hand upon the other man's shoulder. "We'll be out of here soon, I promise."
> 
> Frank slitted his eyes open. "Yeah, because you can just wish a bird here, and it's gonna magically show up, right, Jack?" His voice was little more than a whisper, the words indistinct — but Jack understood. Understood too the fear just below the surface sarcasm in Frank's comment. He checked the bandage on Frank's chest. It was bloody; if they didn't get out of there soon and get medical help, he honestly feared for his friend's life. He wasn't going to tell Frank that, though.
> 
> "Trust me, okay?" he said. Ignoring the pain in his own right leg, Jack dug through the pack holding what supplies they'd been able to salvage before joining the band of locals who had brought them from the mujaheddin camp down to this extraction point, on muleback. It had been a bumpy, uncomfortable passage, but at least they'd made it this far. O'Neill refused to believe they wouldn't both make it the rest of the way back, even if no one else who'd gone in with them was still alive.
> 
> He balled his right hand into a fist at the thought, striking the dusty floor of the cave. _Damn it all to hell!_ Four good men, lost to whatever horrible combination of bad luck or enemy intel had brought down Afghan Army soldiers with Soviet weaponry upon the camp. Those few who had survived the raid, including himself and Frank as the only members of their team to do so, had been forced to retreat to a nearby village, hiding out until sunset, when they'd been spirited out along with a number of locals fleeing across the border into Pakistan. Jack had been shot in the leg during the raid, but was fortunately still mobile, the bone intact and the leg usable, if painful. Frank, on the other hand, had been hit in the chest not once, but twice, and Jack knew he was still bleeding into one lung, at least. Here, just on the Pakistani side of the border, they waited for extraction, hoping at any moment to hear the sound of rotors announcing that their ride had arrived.
> 
> "Y'know, Jack, if I don't make it — " began Frank, in that same hoarse whisper.
> 
> Jack cut him off. "Save your breath. You're gonna make it," he said. "I'm tellin' ya, we'll be out of here before you know it. As long as I have any say in things, you will always make it back. Isn't that what we promised each other?" _Don't you even_ think _about dying on me. We've come too far together, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna lose you now. Besides, there's no way in hell I'm explaining to your wife why I didn't bring you back with me._
> 
> Frank closed his eyes and nodded, attempting a smile through the mask of pain. "Yeah." It turned into another grimace instead.
> 
> Just then, Jack caught the distant sound of rotors. He reached out, squeezing Frank's shoulder. "See? I told you they'd be here any time. Now get busy and tap those ruby slippers together. We're goin' home."

They'd gone on to serve a full dozen years together, side by side. Along the way, they'd gotten each other through more than a few bad situations, even saving each other's lives more than once. In Nicaragua, Frank had damn near gotten himself killed getting Jack to safety. It was the way their partnership worked, the balance tipping back and forth, the two of them a team. They went in together, they did what they had to do, and they got back out together, no matter the risk.

Until the Gulf, and one last mission, a covert op behind enemy lines. O'Neill had been second-in-command of the team, Cromwell next in the chain of command. The rest of the team had been enlisted men, seasoned experts just like themselves. Everything had been going smoothly, until the Republican Guard showed up, visiting disaster upon them. The next thing O'Neill knew, their team leader had been killed, he himself had been wounded... and the rest of the team had been extracted without him. Cromwell hadn't even tried to get to him to see if he was alive or dead.

He'd spent the following four months a prisoner, subjected to interrogation and torture at the hands of the Iraqis. He'd tried to make it through by looking out for his fellow prisoners. He was among the highest-ranking; it was only right that he take responsibility for them. Of course, that only gave his captors more leverage over him, because they could torture him without touching him, simply by their treatment of those for whom he cared. They'd taken full advantage of that, too, the bastards.

He tried holding onto the thought of seeing Sara and Charlie again, but there were times when even that wasn't enough. Times when even thinking about his wife and his son in those surroundings seemed to somehow risk sullying them. O'Neill had cast about for the one thing he could grasp and hold that had as much strength as the horrific, violent environment he found himself in. He'd found it in dwelling on the fact that he'd been left behind, abandoned by Frank Cromwell, the man he'd thought was his best friend, the man for whose sake he'd risked life and limb on more than one occasion. The man who had turned his back and run like hell, ordering the rest of the team onto the helicopter and away to safety, while O'Neill had lain bleeding on the ground, soon to be carted off to prison. He'd thought about what he would do if he had Cromwell in front of him right there and then, about how he might mind this hellhole less if he knew the man who'd let him end up there shared it. O'Neill thought about what he'd do if he ever saw Cromwell again, and all the ways he'd like to make the man suffer.

The next time he did see his former friend, O'Neill hadn't really been in a position to do anything at all. He'd just returned stateside after his imprisonment, and was confined to a hospital bed, weak, injured and in no mood for visitors of any sort, not even Sara. Of course, that hadn't stopped Sara from visiting anyway, despite the fact that he didn't want her to see him in his current condition. She had sat with him, talking to him, the look on her face mingling relief at his return with worry over the gauntness, the bruises, the injuries that were visible to anyone who looked at him. He'd barely spoken to her, half-stoned on the drugs they'd given him for pain and to keep him calm enough to sleep without dreaming, without descending into the nightmares he'd brought back with him.

But the visitor who'd actually brought him fully alert and interacting with his environment had been Cromwell, on the one and only occasion he'd come by. He'd entered the room unnoticed at first. O'Neill remembered awakening groggily, dimly aware of a figure standing at the foot of the bed, watching him quietly, apprehensively, as if unsure whether he should be there. He'd opened his eyes fully, ready to tell Sara, the doctor or the nurse or whoever it was to go away and let him sleep, when he realized it was Frank Cromwell who stood there gazing at him, hat in hand, an expression of infinite regret and sadness on his broad face. For a second, all O'Neill could do was stare back. Wordless. Hollow.

Cromwell had begun to speak; his voice a low, choked sound. "Jack, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know — "

A white-hot fury had rushed in to fill the hollow space within him then, spilling over as he forced himself upright in the bed, hurling invective at the man who had left him behind despite their sworn pact to protect each other, to never abandon anyone, no matter what. Cromwell was still talking as he backed away from the bed, flinching as though each word were a physical blow, hammering home and wounding him. Coward. O'Neill had actually begun to throw things at that point: a water glass, a box of tissues, anything within reach that wasn't nailed down or otherwise attached to the room in some way. Cromwell had retreated out the door, his eyes never leaving O'Neill's face, while he was still screaming. It had taken two orderlies and a nurse to calm him, and another shot of sedative to send him back to the sleep from which he'd awakened.

He hadn't seen Cromwell again from that day until the man had shown up in the SGC, holding Janet Fraiser by the collar and frog-marching her through the base when she should have been attending to her medical duties. _What the hell?_ They had wounded people, and here was Frank, keeping their chief medical officer from caring for them? Incredulous, he could only say, "Cromwell?"

Fraiser's eyes snapped upward to meet O'Neill's own. "You know this guy, sir?"

"Oh, yeah." _Yeah. I know him all right. What I want to know is, what the hell is he doing here?_

"Go on," he'd told the doctor. "Go." She'd hurried off to attend to the injured, as O'Neill turned back to face the man he'd thought never to encounter again.

"Been a while," he said to Cromwell. Of course, it wasn't as if O'Neill hadn't seen him on many occasions over the past eight years. But seeing someone in the context of one's nightmares was a far cry from seeing them in the flesh. Thoughts of his former friend had also crossed his waking mind with increasing regularity over the past two years, though, even as he strove to push them away...

"Yeah. Five hours. Got everybody upstairs pretty worried. Where's the general?" Cromwell wore an undefinable expression. O'Neill read concern, obviously: after all, the man was part of a Special Ops team sent in as a response to whatever crisis the people 'upstairs' thought was occurring. The familiar gaze held more than mere concern for the facility, the project, or even his own duty, though. The regret was still there. He could see it, and the sadness, too. _Should've considered that before you just took everyone and flew away, Frank._

He pushed all thought away, save for the current situation. _Deal with it, get it over with, and Cromwell will go away so you can get on with your life._ "What's the five hours?"

"That's how long this facility's been out of contact with the outside world. Pentagon suspected alien hostiles."

Oh, that was rich. "And they sent _you?_ "

Of course, then Cromwell had to go and volunteer to stay with him, when Hammond said they needed to set the auto-destruct to disconnect the Gate from the black hole. The prospect of being alone with the man was almost more than O'Neill could stand, but orders were orders and the last thing he wanted to do was cause a scene in front of the general, let alone in front of Carter. So it had been just the two of them, and as he'd feared, Cromwell had tried to apologize again for what happened in Iraq. Tried to explain that he'd thought O'Neill dead, before taking off. Tried to explain how he'd wanted to go back and get him, once he'd known of his mistake.

 _Whatever, Frank,_ he remembered thinking. _Let's just do this and get out of here._

The man even had the gall to ask forgiveness.

What O'Neill hadn't counted on was Frank finding and making a valid point that, try as he might — and he did try — O'Neill couldn't really argue with. Maybe it was because he'd already known it, down in some deep recess of his mind or his soul or whatever it was the military issued you to replace it when your soul had been eaten away by circumstance. He'd already known, of course, that not everyone came back alive each time; that was the nature of the reality in which they operated. Known, too, that you couldn't always bring the dead home either. A life was too high a price to pay for a corpse. He was already feeling guilty enough over Henry Boyd and his team, knowing that his recommendation of Boyd for command of SG-10 was directly responsible for the man's presence on P3W-451, where he was already as good as dead because a black hole was going to spend a near-infinite span of time claiming his life, and there wasn't a damn thing O'Neill could do about it. But, damn him, did Frank have to go and point out how very little difference there was between having to leave Boyd and what had happened with them in Iraq?

In the space between the delivery of that lesson, and the time they began to suit up to place Carter's bomb, O'Neill had found himself forced to confront the painful truth. This was _Frank_ , damn it. He knew the guy; had known him for years prior to the Gulf. If Frank were really the type to abandon a friend, O'Neill knew he'd have been dead years earlier. Probably in Nicaragua, if not even before that. There'd been any number of instances where Frank's presence and actions had been all that stood between himself and death, just as the reverse also held true. The fact that he'd lived long enough to even be on that ill-fated mission in Iraq was testament to the other man's loyalty. With stark, painful clarity, O'Neill realized that his hatred for his old friend was little more than the remnant of the structure he'd built to protect himself during his imprisonment: something to cling to, a tool for getting through his ordeal. The time for its use was long past, but rather than discarding it, he'd held onto it, as though it were more precious than the friendship he'd enjoyed for the dozen or more years previously.

Not that it was easy to let go even then, for all that he recognized the necessity. Old habits died hard; very hard. But O'Neill prided himself on being pragmatic along with whatever else he might be, and in any case, he had Frank right there in front of him, in the flesh, calmly preparing to accompany him into harm's way just as they'd done together countless times before. O'Neill realized it was time to let go of the crutch he no longer needed, and begin to make peace with the friend that fate had made sure he could not completely put from his mind or his life.

And then, just as he'd begun to do so, fate had ripped Frank away from him again. It was too cruel, too painful, and O'Neill had found himself shaken to the core by what had transpired. Talking with Janet, late at night in the infirmary, had helped some. Not much, but a little. Grief was a private process, especially for someone like himself, O'Neill knew. But while still in the midst of it, he'd been given a glimmer of hope: that perhaps just this once, he might not have to lose someone he cared about to whatever vendetta the universe seemed to have against him. And so he'd gone straight to Hammond, demanding the rescue mission. Now here they were, and he was frustrated yet again. While it was good to know that Frank had actually made it to P2A-870, the fact that they hadn't found him yet weighed heavily on O'Neill's mind. More than that, he knew full well that he wasn't acting like himself. _Who would, after the past few days?_

"You okay, Jack?" Daniel's voice floated to him from the other side of the campfire.

"I'm fine, Daniel."

"O'Neill, you seem preoccupied." Teal'c placed an armload of firewood next to him and seated himself a few feet away.

"Teal'c, I said I'm fine."

Silence reigned for a moment, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Then Carter spoke up. "Sir, you know I'd normally never pry, but if there's something germane to this mission that's bothering you, we really ought to know about it. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Dammit, Carter, can't a guy just keep a few private thoughts to himself?" The words were harsh, the tone, harsher still, uncharacteristically so even for him. O'Neill could hear the sharpness in his own voice. It made him want to cringe.

No one answered him, save for the night insects droning in the underbrush. He shifted position to sit up, resting his back against the log behind him, staring into the fire as the silence went on far longer than was normal for his team. He sighed inwardly. It was becoming clear that his team had not only noticed his mood, but that they were unlikely to give him any real peace until he came clean to them about what was going on. In their roughly two years together, they'd come to know him as well as anyone ever had, with the possible exception of Sara — or of Frank. Despite the fact that he rarely spoke about his feelings or his personal life with them, they could tell easily enough when something was wrong. It was part of why they worked so well together; the four of them seemed to function on some inexplicable shared wavelength. Even Daniel, whose head was otherwise in the clouds half the time.

Besides, he found himself actually wanting to talk about Frank to someone, all of a sudden, and unexpectedly. Perhaps it was simply the feeling — a normal, human inclination — that talking about him in the present could keep him from becoming part of the past. Ironic, given how badly he'd wanted to leave the man there until just recently. _Christ, I must be getting soft in my old age, or maybe just in the head._

O'Neill looked up finally, noting three sets of eyes regarding him with varying expressions of concern. All three belonged to people who deserved to know something of what was going on, and two in particular were perhaps more intimately related to O'Neill's own mindset on the subject than they'd ever guess. _Just this once,_ he decided, _the 'old man' may as well give them something to work with. Besides, anything beats getting looked at the way they're doing right now. Carter, especially._

He sighed, massaging his forehead. "Fine. I know I'm acting weird."

His team waited, watching him. He took a deep breath, looking for a way to begin. "Okay, you all know I don't exactly talk much about my personal life. And I'm not going to make a habit of it, either. But after that crystal alien thing, you know about Sara, and you know about Charlie, so I guess it won't kill me to tell you about Frank Cromwell. At least then you'll understand why I'm maybe taking this a little more personally than any other search and rescue operation." He cleared his throat.

Carter spoke, her voice full of understanding. "I could tell the two of you had a past, sir."

"Yeah, Carter, that'd be one way to put it." O'Neill stared at the coin for a moment. _Christ, I can't believe I'm doing this._ He took a deep breath. "Frank and I met right at the very beginning of Special Ops training, when we were both twenty-four. A lot of people wouldn't really think we had very much in common. Frank was kind of a quiet guy back then, at least until he got to know the people around him, and folks would probably have told you I didn't even know how to be quiet. But we got thrown together as partners in a lot of training scenarios, and for some reason, we really clicked. We wound up spending a lot of our off-hours together too, just hanging out. He was easy to be around, and I guess he must've figured the same about me. By the time we were two or three months into the program, we'd become best friends.

"We both made it through the program, probably because we kept pushing each other whenever things got tough. Not long afterwards, he met his wife, and it was through her I met Sara, later on. We stood up for each other at our weddings, even. From the time we met onward, we were always together, and we served together for twelve years after we finished training. We were lucky enough to always be in the same unit, on the same team. I probably owe him my life three or four times over, and I pulled him either out of or through a few bad situations too. It was just what we did. Hell, one of our early missions turned into a real disaster, and we were the only two members of our entire team that survived. Frank had gotten shot up pretty bad, and I wasn't doing so hot either, but at least we got out alive. We stuck together, and we survived together."

He sighed and held up the coin they'd found. "This coin is from the unit Frank and I were in when that happened. We weren't with them for too long overall, and after losing the rest of the team and managing to survive anyway, we both kind of treated these as some kind of weird good luck charm that applied solely to us. Surprised the hell out of me to see this, though. I put mine away eight years ago..." He trailed off for a moment, before continuing.

"Up until then, unless we were in some situation where we couldn't have anything identifying us as U.S. military, we both carried them with us all the time, no matter what other unit we were assigned to. Where one of us went, the other went, sort of a package deal. We even pulled a few real black ops where it was just the two of us, and there was nobody I'd have trusted more as a partner."

He paused, once again rubbing the coin. "I figured it was gonna be us against the world, forever. You never think something like that's gonna change. We both bought houses in the Springs around the same time, not long before my son was born. Our wives were best friends themselves, and when Charlie came along, I swear Frank and Lisa doted on him like he was their own kid. I guess you could say we were a family."

He poked at the fire with a stick, prodding new flame from the charring logs. "The Gulf was where it all fell apart for us. Our team drew a covert mission, going behind the lines into enemy territory. It should have been simple; get in, achieve the objective, get out again. We had a tight timetable and the best bunch of guys anywhere. But somehow, it all went straight to hell. We were less than two minutes away from finishing up what we'd gone in to do and there was a crew on their way to pull us all out of there, when all of a sudden the goddamn Republican Guard showed up and there was a firefight. Our CO bought it first crack out of the box, when some Iraqi asshole got off a lucky shot. That left me in charge. I was on the radio trying to call off the extraction so the flight crew wouldn't get shot up, figuring maybe we could still get ourselves out of there somehow and make it to the alternate site, when I got hit."

His lips thinned at the memory of shock and of pain. "It probably looked a lot worse than it was, especially from a distance. I only got grazed alongside the skull, put a nice little groove in the bone and there was a lot of blood, but that's all. Knocked me out for a minute or two, though, and the next thing I remember is hearing rotors, and gunfire and a lot of shouting... and above it all, I could just make out Frank's voice yelling at our guys to move out. I could hear them take off, saw the bird disappear in the distance from the corner of my eye, and then it got real quiet for maybe three, four minutes. The Iraqis found me right about the time I was trying my damnedest to get my feet underneath me, with my head feeling like it wanted to roll off my shoulders." He paused, shaking his head. "I couldn't believe the team had just gone off and left me there. But mostly, I couldn't believe Frank — my best buddy, someone who was like a brother or maybe my fucking right arm — had done it." He uncapped his canteen, took a mouthful of lukewarm water, and capped it again. "I spent the next four goddamn months in an Iraqi prison. And no, you don't want to know the details."

Teal'c spoke from the shadows. "O'Neill, I am certain your friend did not intend for you to be captured."

"I know that, Teal'c," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. "But at the time, I was in pain, and pissed off, and yes, scared out of my goddamn gourd. I knew the Iraqis had some interesting methods for trying to get information out of prisoners, you know? Once I was in that prison, I got to experience them firsthand. Some of it was physical, but some was the kind of stuff that will really mess with your head. So for months, hating Frank for leaving me there became a survival tool. I mean, you don't really think rationally when you're in that situation. You can't. You reach a point where you tune your brain out and you let your gut take over. I tried to hang onto how much I wanted to come home to my wife, to my kid, but there were a lot of days when even thinking about them in the place I was in felt like... I don't know, almost like getting them dirty. I needed something to focus on that felt as horrible and as violent as what was happening to me and around me. On those days, I thought about how badly I wanted to just once look Frank in the eye and punch his lights out, and then never have to look at him again. By the time I got out of there, it was ingrained; I'd stopped being able to think about him any other way." He unrolled his field jacket, pulling it on. _Did it just get colder, or is it me?_

Carter said, "So that explains why you reacted the way you did when the Pentagon sent Colonel Cromwell and his team to the SGC as part of their crisis response."

"Yeah. Except for about five minutes in the hospital, right after I got out of that prison and was sent back stateside, that was the first time I'd laid eyes on Frank since we'd gone on that mission. I hadn't spoken to him in over eight years. I hadn't even so much as mentioned his name to anyone; even Kawalsky and Ferretti knew better than to bring him up around me, and they'd both served with us for a while, back in the day. I just wrote him completely out of my life. I couldn't figure out how the hell it wound up being his team they sent, and I still can't. I mean, of all the stupid luck. Thing is, even though I thought I'd written him out of my life, I'd never really gotten him out of my head, you know?"

"That's understandable, sir. You'd been best friends for such a long time before Iraq."

"It's more than that, though. He's been in my head even more the past couple of years." The colonel leaned his elbows on the log at his back. This was the part where his past intersected his present in a way he'd never articulated before, nor probably would have if not for what he'd just been through. But of the people in his life at present, O'Neill felt he owed something to two of them in particular, especially now. If their current mission proved successful, there was a good chance they might learn anyway at least something of what he was about to tell them, so he might as well explain it. And if not... _No. Don't go there._ "Honestly, Carter, Daniel... in some ways, you've both always reminded me of Frank. Not in a bad way, either of you, but that didn't necessarily make it easy. I spent so many years hating the guy for what happened to me that it left a few raw spots, ya know?"

Carter asked, "Daniel and I remind you of Colonel Cromwell, sir? How?"

O'Neill sighed. "Because Frank's something of a geek, Carter. Not out loud in public, like you and Daniel; but under the surface, where most people never saw it unless he wanted them to, oh yeah. Geek city."

She raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Says the man with the telescope on his roof."

"Yeah, I'm an astronomy geek, but that's about as far as it goes. Hell, Carter; you know that." O'Neill shook his head. "While I know more about astronomy than Frank, he always knew more about science overall, even if he didn't go admitting it to too many people. He's no genius, at least I don't think so, but he's damned intelligent. He used to read a lot of science magazines, just for the hell of it, and sometimes he'd buttonhole me with stuff that had caught his interest. He claimed he only understood maybe two-thirds of what was in them, but I know that understanding — _really_ understanding — two-thirds of even just _Scientific American_ isn't exactly child's play. Besides, if he told you he grasped that much of something, you could usually bet it was really a lot more than that. Frank's always had this big thing about not wanting to look like he's blowing his own horn. I knew him well enough to see how he really was, though. It's probably why he'd talk about that stuff with me, and not necessarily with most other people, even if it went way over my head sometimes and he knew it."

Carter smiled at her CO's admission about his own personal habit. She knew perfectly well that the befuddled act was just that: an act. O'Neill was no slouch in the intellectual department. You couldn't be; not and get to his level of both ability and responsibility. From O'Neill's description of Cromwell, the two sounded like men cut from very similar cloth.

Daniel asked, "And what does he have in common with me, Jack?"

O'Neill shot him an unfathomable look. "A hell of a lot, Daniel. For one thing, the guy doesn't have much family. Oh, he did, growing up, but by the time I met him they were almost all gone, and we were both still pretty young then. I think that's part of why he stayed in the Air Force long after his obligation was up. Being in the service kind of gives you a family, of sorts."

"His obligation?" Daniel's tone was curious.

"Yeah. I went to the Academy; I always knew I wanted to be a career officer. Frank's path was different. He went the ROTC route in college, because he needed money to pay for his education. He really wanted a college degree, and his folks either couldn't or wouldn't pony up the cash. He had enough money saved up for the first year, and spent that time figuring out a way to manage the rest. Frank decided that serving as an Air Force officer for a time was both a reasonable trade for an education, and good preparation for a future career. Originally, he'd planned to go back to civilian life afterward and become a high school teacher, or if he could find enough time and money to get a PhD, then he was gonna shoot for that, and spend the rest of his life teaching at some university. He'd probably have been good at it, too." O'Neill shrugged. "But he always said that after a couple years of active duty, he kind of fell in love with military life. So he made up his mind to stick around for the long haul, and that's when he decided he wanted to be in Special Ops. Hell of a switch, but then nobody ever said either one of us was exactly sane."

He fiddled with the coin for a moment, silent. When he spoke again, his voice was thoughtful. "You know, some of the other regular officers didn't have much respect for the ROTC types, but I remember thinking that anyone who got commissioned that way and then was crazy enough to go out for Special Ops instead of just biding his time in something a lot safer had to be worth something. And Frank didn't disappoint me on that, or anybody else, either. I don't know exactly what he was looking for at first; hell, I don't even know if he did. But it sure seemed like he found it, because he stuck with it. He made regular status when he got promoted to major, too."

"So, what did he study in college?" Daniel wanted to know.

"History. And as I recall, he minored in anthropology. Those were two other things he'd go on about if I let him. He'd talk about the background of whatever place it was we went to, or just about something he'd read that had caught his interest."

"No kidding? So when I — "

"Exactly, Daniel." O'Neill massaged the space between his eyes. "I mean, I can always close _National Geographic_ when I'm feeling overloaded. You and Frank are a different story. You kind of have different areas of concentration, but it's the same overall effect."

"Jeez, Jack. No wonder you get irritated with me, if I've been reminding you of someone you didn't want to think about. I didn't mean to reopen old wounds. I apologize."

The colonel shook his head. "Don't worry about it, okay? For all I know, maybe it's something I needed. And I've told you to can it when it was most annoying. Besides, you and Carter have other things in common with him; things nobody in their right mind's ever gonna complain about. You might bicker with me all the time, but you're both loyal as hell. You too, Teal'c. And so's Frank. I kind of lost sight of that after what happened in Iraq. But he said something to me while it was just the two of us down there in the control room, getting ready to start the auto-destruct. I didn't want to listen, but he didn't leave me any choice; just said his piece whether I wanted him to or not. And the truth is, it wasn't really his fault that I wound up in that prison cell."

He resumed turning the coin between his fingers, staring at it as he spoke aloud the words that gave Frank absolution, even if it were _in absentia_ , at least for the moment. "Shit happens, especially in the middle of a firefight. And smart as he is, Frank's not superhuman; no more than I am. He didn't have any way of knowing I wasn't dead when I went down. Hell, at first even I thought I was. Given the way I was hit, I can see how he'd have assumed the worst. There wouldn't have been any way for him to know it wasn't much more than a graze, not without probably getting himself killed trying to get to me, and I wouldn't have wanted that. Not that he wouldn't have taken that chance, if it had been just him and me there, because I know damn well he would have. He'd done something like it before. But there were six other guys with us this time, and with our CO dead, me going down left Frank in charge of the team. The helicopter was already there; I could hear rotors as I was lying on the ground wondering how much of my head was gone. They had to load up and fly out, or lose the entire team and possibly the bird and the flight crew. You don't sacrifice a bunch of lives to retrieve a corpse, or somebody who's gonna be a corpse before you can get them any help. Frank really didn't have a choice; he'd have known his duty at that point was to the living. The problem is, I was too busy just trying to survive to think about it logically."

He stared into the fire for a moment, his teammates waiting in silence, giving him space to think. When he spoke again, his voice took on a slightly ragged edge. "It took having to leave Henry Boyd and his team on P3W-451 to make me really think about what kind of position Frank had been in. I got it straight-up pointed out to me that it was the same situation." He lifted his gaze from the fire, bringing it to rest on Daniel, suddenly realizing the other error he'd made. "And there's no excuse, because I should have realized a lot sooner. I mean, yeah, I know it turned out to be an illusion, but when we all thought you'd burned to death on whatever that planet was, the one where you met your buddy Nem, and we came back without you... Ah, hell, you'd think I would have gotten a clue then what it must have been like for Frank." O'Neill sighed. "He always did tell me I had a thick skull."

"We'll find him, Jack," Daniel reassured him.

"We'd damn well better." He cleared his throat. Having gone this far, the need to unburden himself demanded he share one more piece of the story. "Do you know what else he told me, while it was just him and me down there? When he found out I was alive and in prison, he wanted to go back for me, go in and get me out of there. Knowing Frank, he'd have had the whole mission mapped out, but of course getting the brass to okay it was probably where it bogged down. That bastard West was in charge of ops in the area at the time, and he always was the kind of hardass who saw individuals as expendable." He pushed himself upright to sit on the log, grabbing a small chunk of wood from the pile next to him and hurling it into the flames, sending a shower of sparks skyward. "I'd never had a clue Frank attempted to put together a rescue, though, not until now. If he tried to explain it to me when he came to see me in the hospital after I got stateside — and I'm guessing he did — I don't remember. I wasn't exactly in a listening frame of mind at the time; I was too busy screaming and looking for things to throw at him." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "By the way, kids, don't try to rip a phone cord out of the wall if you're in a hospital bed with tubes in your arm. It doesn't work, and it hurts like hell. Tends to piss off the nurses, too."

"Now I see why you were ready to go toe-to-toe with General Hammond."

"That had something to do with it, Daniel, yes."

Teal'c spoke up. "O'Neill, we will continue searching. We will find your friend."

Later, after they had turned in for the night, Carter found herself reflecting on her CO's revelation, as she waited for sleep to come. No, the colonel wasn't one to share much about his personal life with his team. Perhaps not with anyone. Yet he had done so this evening. That, combined with his manner prior to their embarking on this mission, and the look of pure shock and worry on his face — neither of them an emotion he often showed — when he'd found the coin in the stream, told her just how shaken he was by recent events.

 _I hope his friend is safe,_ she mused. _Not only for his own sake, but because I'm afraid it will be very hard on Colonel O'Neill if he isn't._


	11. Under Fire

_True valor lies between cowardice and rashness._ \- Miguel de Cervantes

 

Concealed within the forest, well back from the treeline at the bottom of the shallow hill occupied by the compass circle and the stargate, Cadogan's party of Pridani warriors waited while the _cadlywydd_ and Gerlad conferred with Nenniaw and Dynawd. Watching from a few feet away and doing his best to follow what he could make out of the conversation, Cromwell fidgeted with the _ma'tok_ he had been issued, hefting the staff weapon repeatedly to familiarize himself with its balance. The fact that the stargate and its Jaffa guards were atop the hill presented a problem, in his mind. The high ground was an easily defensible position, and any attack the Pridani launched from the bottom of the hill would almost surely be detected long before they reached the top, if the Jaffa were paying attention at all. Cadogan's party outnumbered the Jaffa two to one, but numbers and surprise were their only advantages, and Cromwell worried that they would lose the element of surprise as soon as they began to make their way up the hill. Somehow, the two scouts the _cadlywydd_ had sent earlier to check on the situation had gotten far enough up the hill to count ten Jaffa and return, however, without being detected.

He turned to look at Tesni. The Pridani woman leaned against the bole of a nearby tree, observing their surroundings. She held her own _ma'tok_ lightly in one hand, its base resting on the leaf-littered ground. After a moment, her glance flicked in Cromwell's direction, and he beckoned with a gesture. She moved to his side, and he spoke quietly, so that only she would hear. "I thought I took a pretty good look around yesterday before leaving the compass circle, but I may have missed something. Is there a way to the top that doesn't involve an exposed approach? Obviously, the scouts managed it somehow."

Tesni nodded, gesturing off toward the edge of the wood and the shallow slope leading up to the standing stones. "The woods reach to within just a short distance of the top of the hill at a point about one-quarter of the way sunwise around the circle from here." Cromwell nodded; he did recall that much. The jutting bit of forest was on the opposite side of the stargate from the controller and the point where he had exited the circle to follow the trail that led to Llanavon. Tesni went on, "The trees there conceal a trail whose end is aligned with the compass stone for that quarter. Anyone coming from that direction has a good chance of being screened from view by the stone itself. The scouts would have come to the edge of the wood and no farther, and could do so without being easily noticed by the Jaffa, who they say are primarily guarding the _drws deialwr_ — the device which controls the _drws rhyng y byd_ — and the direct approach to the gate itself. The _cadlywydd_ will likely send a small party that way to draw their attention — "

" — while the rest of us approach from one or more of the others," Cromwell finished for her. It made sense, and he approved. _Not that it matters what I think. This is Cadogan's show. I'm damn lucky to not have been stuffed away under lock and key someplace while he and that Sabar fellow figure out what the hell to do with me._

As it turned out, Tesni was correct. Cadogan and the others broke up their conversation a few moments later, the _cadlywydd_ gathering the entire party and issuing orders in a calm voice. Four men were dispatched to the hidden trail on the other side of the hill, while the remainder of the group — eighteen in all, including Cadogan and Gerlad — were divided into three groups, each to approach from a different direction at the first sound of engagement from the hilltop. Cromwell noted that Cadogan himself planned to lead one of the groups; clearly, he was not the type of leader who sent others into harm's way while remaining behind the lines in relative safety. He found the realization increased his respect for the _cadlywydd_.

Cromwell and Tesni were assigned together to Nenniaw's group, along with — Cromwell was surprised to learn — Gerlad. Dynawd would lead the remaining party. As everyone arranged themselves and moved to the places from which they would approach the hilltop, there came sounds from the direction of the main trail leading toward Llanavon. Nenniaw's group, which had been assigned that approach, melted silently back among the trees, far enough from the trail to escape notice, yet near enough to observe the passage of whomever came along it. From a place of concealment behind a massive oak, Cromwell watched as two Jaffa appeared, leading a group of children and youths bound together by the wrists and linked to a stout rope line. The youngest of the children struggled to keep up with the pace set by the Jaffa, and one stumbled, crying out, only to be roughly pulled to her feet again by the Jaffa stationed at the rear of the line. A teenaged girl ahead of her turned to offer a word of encouragement, despite the frightened expression on her own face, and Cromwell nearly gasped in recognition. It was Tegwyn. He felt Tesni, sharing the tree's shelter, tense as she, too, saw her niece. Quickly, he scanned the captive group for any sign of Ris, but the boy did not appear to be among them.

Cromwell turned, his eyes meeting Tesni's. He saw fury there, and laid a hand on her arm in reassurance. Somehow, they would get those kids free of the Jaffa, if he had any say in the situation. Tesni seemed to understand the meaning behind his gesture, nodding almost imperceptibly in response.

Cromwell glanced toward Nenniaw's position behind a similar tree, just a few feet distant. The other man's jaw was set as he watched the Jaffa herd the line of children along the trail, toward the spot where the forest ended and the trail emerged from the trees and began to climb the hill to the compass circle. Cromwell knew they couldn't allow the children to get anywhere near the hilltop and the compass circle when there was about to be a firefight. At the same time, to give away their own presence and position prematurely would be to invite disaster of a different sort, which would likely result not only in the loss of their ability to retake the stargate, but also was certain to get quite a few of the Pridani killed, including any of the children unlucky enough to get in the way if said firefight erupted on the trail rather than on the hilltop. _Damn, damn, god_ damn _it._ From the look on Nenniaw's face, Cromwell surmised that the man shared his own assessment of the situation.

Almost as soon as his mind processed the thought, Cromwell's attention was drawn by another sound. He turned, peering back down the trail, deeper into the forest. There, among the trees, he caught a flash of blue, and the sound of ragged breathing reached his ears. He could only guess at the reason the Jaffa hadn't noticed it — clearly, they were preoccupied with keeping their captives in motion toward the stargate that would whisk them away from their world and their families. Indeed, they were nearly at the edge of the forest, about to emerge into the open at the bottom of the slope. Cromwell glanced back along the trail in time to see the blue flash move out from behind a tree of its own. He realized with a shock that it was Ris, a _zat'nik'tel_ in one hand. _Christ, what the hell does he think he's doing?_

Both Nenniaw and Tesni saw him too. Helpless, the three watched as the youth approached. They couldn't cry out to stop him, lest the Jaffa hear. Cromwell tensed, preparing to tackle Ris as he drew even with their place of concealment, hoping he could manage to do so at least as silently as he had done the night before. _I hate like hell to do that to the kid twice in twenty-four hours, but better that than letting him tangle with the Jaffa and get himself killed._

An instant before he would have launched himself at Ris, however, another sound reached him, this time from the hilltop above. There was shouting and what could only be the sound of _zat'nik'tels_ and staff weapons firing. Their advance party had engaged the Jaffa, and this was their signal to storm the hilltop. From a point to either side along the curve of the treeline, Cromwell heard shouts as the other two groups of Pridani broke from cover, making for the compass circle. _Of all the goddamn lousy timing._ Only Nenniaw's group was even aware of the presence of the captive children and the two Jaffa still on the forest trail.

Nenniaw turned and was shouting something at Gerlad. Gerlad broke from hiding, yelling something at the other two Pridani with them, whose names Cromwell hadn't gotten. Those two glanced in Nenniaw's direction for a split second before following Gerlad out of the trees and sprinting for the hillside. Nenniaw turned back then, joining Cromwell and Tesni as they spilled out onto the trail, where the two Jaffa had halted their group of captives and taken up a defensive position. One of the Jaffa was looking straight at Ris, who hesitated on the trail, not more than five feet from where Cromwell emerged. The youth raised his weapon as the Jaffa brought his own to bear. Ris managed to fire first, somehow striking the Jaffa, who dropped, writhing, to the ground. His companion, however, had by this time taken aim with his own staff weapon, and loosed a bolt at Ris.

The youth was struck by the blast, and in the same instant by Cromwell, who knocked him off the trail and into the underbrush, a split second later than he had hoped. Cromwell caught part of the blast himself, and felt a searing heat blister the skin of his right shoulder. Fortunately, neither he nor Ris had suffered the full force of a direct hit, though Ris was clearly worse off than he was. The entire left side of the youth's tunic was charred away, the flesh beneath burned and blackened. He was breathing, though, Cromwell noticed as he took a rapid inventory of both their conditions, even as he heard another _zat'nik'tel_ firing — once, twice, a third time. His own injury was mild by comparison to the boy's, and he scrambled upright, back across the trail to retrieve the _ma'tok_ staff he'd let fall as he'd leapt at Ris.

Miraculously, none of the children had been hit by any of the energy loosed by either Ris' _zat'nik'tel_ nor the Jaffa's staff, though they were huddled together, on the trail, the younger ones sobbing while the older ones tried to both comfort and shield them. Cromwell caught Tegwyn's voice above the rest, speaking in as calm a voice as she could muster as she and a boy who looked to be just slightly younger than herself tried to quiet the smaller children, though he could detect a note of fear underlying her words. _Brave girl, even so._ But where was the second Jaffa?

He heard the sound of a _zat'nik'tel_ twice more as he approached, and caught sight of Nenniaw hooking one of the z-shaped, serpent-headed weapons through his belt as he stood over the place where Cromwell would have sworn the body of the Jaffa that Ris shot had lain. Belatedly, he remembered that the commander from Llanavon had come to this fight doubly-armed, with both _ma'tok_ and _zat'nik'tel_ , and recalled being briefed on the characteristics of the smaller weapon. _Three shots disintegrate the target? So that's where the other Jaffa went, too._ He shuddered in spite of himself at the thought. Tesni appeared from behind Nenniaw, glancing about for her nephew. "He lives, but he is injured," Cromwell told her, gesturing toward the underbrush where Ris lay hidden from view.

Tesni nodded, and bent to free Tegwyn from the rope binding her wrists. "Free the others, then look after your brother. All of you, get off this trail and hide; Tegwyn, you know where. Take Ris with you." She turned then, taking a firm grip on her staff weapon, and started for the trail leading uphill. The sounds of fighting still reached them as Cromwell fell in beside her and Nenniaw. He hated leaving the kids to fend for themselves, but had to trust Tesni's judgment and Tegwyn's ability to look after them. He, Tesni and Nenniaw would most likely be needed up top.

Cresting the hill, they were engulfed in smoke and sound. The plaza was filled with Pridani and Jaffa shooting at each other, and shouting orders in two languages. Cromwell strained to make out the Pridanic. He knew enough to understand that their objective was to gain control of the device that dialed the stargate, denying the Jaffa access to the gate and a way to transport their captives off the planet. Of course, the captives had since been freed — but no one here yet knew that. Outnumbered, the Jaffa were indeed taking a beating from Cadogan's forces, and Cromwell found a firm appreciation for the ability of the Pridani against the armored warriors.

Tesni whirled suddenly, taking aim and firing her weapon halfway across the plaza at a Jaffa poised to strike Gerlad with the butt of the Jaffa's own staff. The Jaffa flew backward to land in a smoking heap just at the base of the stargate. Gerlad, for his own part, shot twice at another Jaffa who stood next to the stargate's dialing mechanism. One more shot caused the Jaffa's corpse to disintegrate, and Cromwell shuddered again, wondering if he would ever get used to seeing that happen.

As they worked their way across the plaza, Cadogan himself appeared from behind one of the standing stones, a _zat'nik'tel_ in his right hand. He picked off another of the Jaffa attempting to dial the gate, but Cromwell saw another appear from behind the _cadlywydd_ , taking aim. He raised his own weapon and pressed the firing stud, as Tesni had shown him at the armory. A second press sent fire belching from the staff, and the Jaffa went down, just as Cromwell noticed a faint golden sparkle around Cadogan. _Some kind of shielding?_ He tried to recall everything he'd been told about Goa'uld personal defense systems, and wondered whether the Tok'ra also used them. The gaps in the information he'd been given continued to irritate him.

They reached Cadogan's side. "The children have been freed," shouted Nenniaw. "There were two Jaffa with them, and both are dead. I have no idea what happened to the other two who were seen in Llanavon, but if they were still there when Celyn arrived, I trust he will have handled the situation." There were only three Jaffa left alive in the compass circle by this time, and even as Nenniaw spoke, Dynawd, Gerlad and another Pridani whom Cromwell didn't know dispatched them. The hilltop fell quiet, save for the moans of two injured Pridani near the stargate.

Cromwell counted six dead Pridani, all from among the contingent brought from Dinas Coedwyg. The two who were injured — a man and a woman — both bore burns similar to those suffered by Ris from the Jaffa staff weapon. Cadogan approached them with a quiet word, pulling a round, lozenge-shaped object from a belt pouch. It had a metallic rim surrounding a reddish, crystalline-looking center, and a metal band across the back, into which Cadogan slipped his hand. Holding the device over the burns on the woman's back, the _cadlywydd_ 's face took on a look of intense concentration. The red center of the object began to emit a powerful glow, and after a moment the burns began to fade. Cromwell watched, fascinated, as Cadogan repeated the procedure on the injured man. By the time he had finished, the woman was sitting up and speaking quietly to Tesni, who knelt beside her.

Cadogan turned to Cromwell.

"Your turn," he said, gesturing toward Cromwell's shoulder, where the black fabric of his shirt and T-shirt had been burned away.

Cromwell looked, noting the blistered flesh beneath. Yes, it hurt, but he was pretty sure he could deal with it. He'd had worse injuries. "Ah... I can think of someone who could use your help more. Ris followed the Jaffa from the village as they led the children toward this place, and he actually shot one of them. He took a staff blast in return, or part of one, anyway. He's pretty badly burned."

Tesni glanced up and interrupted. "I saw you get hit together when you tried to push him out of the way." She looked at Cadogan. "That's how Frehnk got hurt."

Cromwell shook his head at Tesni. "Ris is a lot worse off than me, though."

Cadogan looked alarmed. "Take me to him, then." Together they set off down the trail toward the forest, along with Tesni. About twenty yards inside the treeline, she led them off the trail and along what appeared to be a deer track, to a small thicket. Pushing aside branches revealed a clear space in which the children huddled. Tegwyn and the other teenaged boy sat on the ground at one side of the space. Ris lay between then, his head in his sister's lap. He was conscious, biting his lip to keep from crying out in pain as Tegwyn stirred at their arrival.

Cadogan knelt by the youth's side, once again fitting the round device to his hand. He murmured something to Ris, who nodded once. The _cadlywydd_ played the glow of the device along the charred flesh, and Cromwell watched the burns fade, as they had on the other two victims. A few moments later, the process was complete, and Ris' face relaxed, the expression of pain gone. Cadogan then said something else that Cromwell didn't quite catch, but which elicited a look of apprehension from the boy. The older man spoke again, gesturing toward Ris' face and the bruises still visible from his altercation with Cromwell the night before. Raising the device again, he played its glow across the black eye, healing that injury as well.

Tesni clearly understood Cadogan's meaning. "If Ris thought I was harsh with him last night, he will soon realize that was nothing, once the _cadlywydd_ has dealt with him for his actions today. He must learn patience and caution," she told Cromwell quietly.

"He had better, before he gets himself killed," Cromwell agreed.

Finishing with Ris, Cadogan stood upright once more, turning to Tesni and Cromwell. Again, he gestured to Cromwell's shoulder. "Let me see what I can do about that."

Cromwell noted the lines of strain in the _cadlywydd_ 's face. They hadn't been there before he began healing the injured. Surely something like that had to take an effort from the user. "I will be all right," he assured the older man. "I have had worse injuries than this before, and they healed fine on their own."

Cadogan shook his head, a slight smile on his lips. "I can manage this. It will only take a moment, and you're the last of the wounded, not to mention the least severely hurt."

Tesni laid a hand on Cromwell's other shoulder. "Let him. You will be glad you did."

Rather than argue, he acquiesced, allowing Cadogan to use the strange healing device on him. He felt warmth and a mild tingle where the crystal's glow bathed his skin. After a moment, the _cadlywydd_ allowed the glow to fade, and Cromwell looked to see all traces of the burns vanished, replaced by healthy flesh. This was the same shoulder where he had been shot in Iraq, and the scarring from that injury reached into the area that had been burned. He could swear there was some blurring of the scar tissue itself. Blinking, he shook his head and glanced at Tesni, as Cadogan put the device away. "Better?" she asked. Cromwell flexed the shoulder.

"Yes, much." He turned to Cadogan, curiosity finally overwhelming him. "Thank you. What is that thing, anyway?"

Cadogan shrugged. "We call this a  _ta'el kesh_. A healing device developed from very ancient technology. Most of Sabar's people carry them, and the Goa'uld use them too. They come in handy on the battlefield."

 _I'll say. Douglas would be having kittens right now if he saw that,_ Cromwell mused, thinking of his team's medic, back on Earth.

There was a rustling sound, and Cromwell saw Gerlad push his way into the tiny clearing. The aide spoke to Cadogan. "Nenniaw and Dynawd would know how you want to handle returning the dead to Dinas Coedwyg, and how many people should be left to guard the compass circle against any Jaffa who may return."

Cadogan turned to the younger man. "I would like to leave at least six on guard for now, and send reinforcements from Llanavon if possible. Let Dynawd be in charge in the compass circle for the present. The dead can be transported using the horses, but we should wait until we have brought more people from the village. Carry the dead into the forest and hide them until we have done so. I don't trust the Jaffa, and until we receive word from Bren Argoed and from the mines to the north, we can't afford to relax." He turned to Cromwell and Tesni. "I will send scouts to Llanavon to make sure it is safe before sending the children back. If possible, the scouts will bring some of Celyn's party to the compass circle. For right now, I'd like the two of you to remain here with the children, in case more Jaffa come."

Tesni nodded, as did Cromwell after a moment. He glanced over to where Ris was sitting up, watching the three of them intently. With Tesni's help, he intended to have a talk of his own with the young man.


	12. Among Friends

_No one of this nation ever begs, for the houses of all are common to all; and they consider liberality and hospitality amongst the first virtues._ — Gerallt Gymro, aka Gerald of Wales, 12th century Welsh clergyman

 

Tesni and Cromwell spent roughly an hour and a half standing guard over the little thicket in which the children from Llanavon were hidden. Tesni had retrieved the _zat'nik'tel_ that Ris had used, and hooked it through her belt as Nenniaw had done. Cromwell still had to suppress the urge to shudder every time he thought of the disintegration of the victims of a third shot from the weapon. Intellectually, he knew that once the victim was dead, as resulted from being receiving two bolts in quick succession, it hardly mattered what happened to the corpse, but just the very idea that an entire person could be made to simply vanish like that unnerved him. He was accustomed to living in a concrete world, where people and things didn't just wink out of existence. Not that his sane, normal, understandable world hadn't already been rocked to the core by the events of the past two or three days. Or, for that matter, by his initially learning months ago of the existence and nature of the Stargate, and that his world was under threat from an alien species which had influenced its course since somewhere around the dawn of recorded history, if not before. The colonel was familiar with enough science to have been aware of the possibility of alien life-forms elsewhere in the universe for quite some time, and he'd enjoyed enough science fiction to be comfortable with that concept and a great many others, at least in the abstract. However, now that he found himself faced with elements that seemed straight out of some of the wilder pieces of fiction he'd devoured over the years, he felt very much as he imagined an amphibian might feel, the first time it left the safety of the water and had to learn to navigate on dry land while simultaneously adjusting to no longer being a tadpole.

Quite simply put, it was a lot to consider.

"Excuse me." The quiet words from behind him drew his attention. Turning, he saw Tegwyn standing there, her hand outstretched. In it was the challenge coin he had given her that morning, before leaving for Dinas Coedwyg. "I made sure not to lose this, but you should take it back now," the girl said shyly.

Cromwell took the coin. "Thank you for keeping that safe. It — "

"It is important to you. I can tell," she said. "I also wanted to thank you for pushing my brother out of the way when the Jaffa shot at him. I am sorry you were hurt in doing so."

The colonel shook his head. "It was minor, really. The _cadlywydd_ could have left it alone." What he didn't bother trying to explain was that he had tried — and failed — to push Ris away _before_ he'd had a chance to fire at the Jaffa holding Tegwyn and the others captive, lest he miss and strike her or one of the other kids. She didn't need to carry that thought, at least not right now. If Ris hadn't fired, he might not have been fired upon in turn. Tesni and Nenniaw could have dealt with the Jaffa, with Cromwell's own help once Ris was safely out of the way. Nevertheless, things had shaken out the way they did, and he supposed what mattered most at present was that not only had Ris survived, but every single one of the kids who were captured was unhurt, and none had been taken away through the stargate. Everything else could be dealt with later. He was determined to have a talk with Ris once they were all back in the village, however. He didn't doubt for one moment that he might have to stand in line to do so, but the boy would have to learn of his error and take steps to avoid similar mistakes in the future. If that meant being chastised by a half-dozen people, including a foreign stranger, so be it.

Once the scouts had returned from Llanavon, bringing with them reinforcements to remain on guard at the compass circle and announcing that it was safe to bring the children back to the village, Cromwell and Tesni, together with Nenniaw, Cadogan and Gerlad, set out for Llanavon with the children. After reassuring his own son — who had indeed been among the captives — that he would return later, Dynawd remained at the compass circle, with the first watch set there.

Upon their arrival at Llanavon, the children were whisked off by grateful parents, while Cadogan and his officers, minus Dynawd but including Celyn, presided over a meeting in the shade of the same patio where dinner had been served the evening before. Also in attendance were a large number of the village's residents, clearly members of whatever militia comprised the bulk of Llanavon's adult population. Now that he was aware of the true situation regarding the Pridani, their circumstances, and their resistance to the Goa'uld, Cromwell understood his own suspicions and reactions from the previous day. The village and its inhabitants had reminded him of a guerilla stronghold because that was essentially the case here. The presence of entire families only added an extra complication to the picture. As he sat with Tesni at a table not far from where Cadogan stood to address the gathered villagers, recollections of Nicaragua and Afghanistan kept surfacing, and he struggled as his mind insisted on overlaying the memories onto his current surroundings. He finally succeeded in pushing them back into a remote corner of his mind, and turned his focus to the _cadlywydd_ 's comments and the questions from the locals. As long as he was stuck here, he knew he would need to be aware of everything that could affect his situation, and the situation into which SG-1, or whichever team might be sent to find him, would arrive.

Word had come from Bren Argoed that the quartet of Jaffa who had shown up there had been killed, thanks to the early warning provided by the runners Cadogan had sent from Dinas Coedwyg. That left only the eight who'd gone north toward the mines, and even now they were being tracked, and would with any luck, be dispatched before they reached their intended destination. Cromwell paid close attention throughout the meeting, and found he could follow most of what was said without need for interpretation. The longer he spent listening to Pridanic, the easier it became to understand, and he was coming to rely less and less on Tesni's help. The language really wasn't so far removed from Welsh as he had originally thought. Mostly, it was a matter of learning slightly different pronunciations for what were essentially familiar words. The overall structure and vocabulary were similar enough that he could follow the majority of what he heard, unless it was very fast. He also found himself noticing what must be common contractions in use. They were somewhat different from the ones he'd learned from his grandmother, which made sense given the different set of sounds that Welsh and Pridanic had evolved for familiar words, which quite naturally led to different ways of forming contractions. Nevertheless, he was developing a catalogue in his mind of these differences, and he only had to ask Tesni to clarify things a few times during the proceedings.

When it was over, most of the attendees broke up into small, conversational knots, many drifting off into the village. Cadogan himself retired to a corner table with a small handpicked group including Nenniaw, Celyn and two of the men from Dinas Coedwyg, along with the ever-present Gerlad. Clearly this was a meeting of senior officers with their commander. Cromwell noticed Ris sitting alone at a table in the opposite corner of the patio, intent on some small object in his hands. Catching Tesni's eye, he said, "After what happened in the woods with those Jaffa, I think I would really like to have a talk with your nephew. I know that your uncle is probably going to do the same, and it might not be my place, being an outsider, but some things really do bear repeating. There's so much that could have gone wrong that I doubt the boy realizes half of it."

She nodded. "You have as much right to speak to him about his mistake as anyone, Frehnk. In fact, you have more. If Ris had not been where he was, doing what he was doing, you would not have been injured saving his life. You could have been killed, and the responsibility would have been his."

Cromwell shook his head. "That's not what concerns me when I say there's a lot that could have gone wrong out there today. Ris risking his life the way he did was a bad idea, but anything I might have done is part of the job I was trained to do. The problem isn't the boy putting _me_ in danger, Tesni; it's the fact that he did it to his sister and those children, and that's part of why I jumped him. Except I was trying to get at him before he fired, once I saw what he was about to do. Shooting at those Jaffa with Tegwyn and the others right there was an unacceptable risk to take. I don't care how long he's been practicing with that _zat'nik'tel_ ; he can't possibly have known he wouldn't hit one of them instead of the Jaffa he was aiming for. I'd have been afraid to try it myself, even with a weapon I've been using for years." _And according to the Air Force, at least, I'm a damn good marksman. But I still wouldn't have wanted to chance it with those kids right there. Ris is lucky he still has a sister._

Tesni nodded. "If the _cadlywydd_ had been present to see it happen, he would have some unbelievably harsh words on the subject, I am sure. He likely will anyway. However, since you were there, it is definitely something you ought to speak to Ris about. I had planned to, but I think it might mean even more coming from you. Ris has already taken his share of criticism from me lately, but I get the impression he respects you despite having just met you, and perhaps he will listen to you more closely for that."

Cromwell shrugged. "Well, I don't know why that would be true, but I'm going to talk to him regardless. He seems like a bright boy, and a good one. But if he doesn't learn to think before he acts, he'll continue to be a danger to himself and others." The colonel levered himself up from the bench, wincing as abused muscles protested. Between fighting the gravity well back in the SGC — _was it really only yesterday?_ — followed by the time spent on horseback, the events at the stargate, and his ongoing sleep deficit, he was really beginning to hurt something fierce. Sitting still for the past hour or so had only added to the problem by making him stiff. Cromwell felt around in his pocket for the vial of willow bark tincture Tesni had given him in Dinas Coedwyg, hoping he hadn't managed to smash it in the course of the afternoon. It was still there, whole and stoppered. Tesni noticed it in his hand as he pulled it out, and poured a splash of cider from the pitcher into his empty mug. Gratefully, he tipped several drops into the cider and drained the mug, even though he knew it wasn't going to do nearly as much good as he'd like. Picking up the pitcher, he refilled the mug. The local hard cider didn't seem terribly strong, but at this point he hoped it might relax his muscles a bit, anyway.

Tesni touched his arm lightly. "Do you want my help in translating, or do you think you can manage without me? I'm happy to help, but if you think it will be better to speak with him on your own, I understand."

Cromwell considered this. On the one hand, a man-to-man talk was probably ideal; but on the other, he still wasn't certain enough of his skill at Pridanic to be confident of getting his message across effectively without Tesni's presence at least as backup. "I'd appreciate your help, just in case. Unless you have other things you need to do?"

She shook her head. "No, and certainly nothing more important than this. Ris is my nephew, and this is a conversation that is definitely for his own good."

Ris looked up at their approach. The object on which he'd been so focused was, Cromwell saw, a small wooden figure of a bird, still in progress as Ris whittled it from a piece of wood using a small knife. He was reminded of his Uncle Jim, who'd spent countless hours whittling all sorts of small animal figures and other objects at family gatherings in his boyhood, to the fascination of himself, his brother and their cousins.

Ris laid his project on table, and his knife beside it. Cromwell reached for the bird. "May I?" he asked. The youth nodded. Picking it up, the colonel examined it closely. Ris appeared to be a talented artisan for one so young. The figure was clearly that of a woodpecker, clean-lined and graceful, with tiny details of feathers and markings worked into the soft wood.

Placing the bird back on the table, he offered the boy a smile. "Very nice. You do good work."

Ris smiled back tentatively. "Thank you." He watched as Cromwell and Tesni took seats. It was clear he expected some sort of repercussion from the events of the afternoon.

Cromwell was about to lead off when Tesni spoke. "Ris, you owe our guest an apology again."

He shot her a look. "I already told you my thoughts on that, Tesni." Turning to Ris, he said, "This isn't about apologies, son. But we do need to talk."

Ris shook his head. "My aunt is right. I do owe you an apology, and my thanks. I don't remember much after I was struck by that firebolt, but I saw later that you were hurt, and Tegwyn told me how it happened, because she watched it. I'm sorry to have put you in that position. I do appreciate what you did, though." The youth's expression was earnest.

The colonel fixed him with a stern look. "I'm just glad you weren't killed, because you easily could have been. Ris, do you know why I tackled you in the first place? It wasn't because you were about to get shot by a Jaffa; I didn't even see him take aim. I was hoping to keep you from firing at the Jaffa at all."

The boy's eyes grew round. "Why?"

"Ris, think about who was right next to them. If you'd missed the Jaffa, who would you likely have hit?"

He watched as realization dawned, the youth's face registering the precise moment the horror of the thought hit him. "I... I wasn't even thinking of that."

"Exactly my point. If you're going to get involved in a firefight — not that you have any business doing that just yet — you have to be aware of everything around you, as much as you possibly can, and you have to let that information guide your actions, even if you only have an instant to think. Otherwise, you're either going to get yourself killed, or get someone else killed who isn't your enemy, or maybe even both. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Ris nodded mutely.

"Good. Now, who's been teaching you to use a _zat'nik'tel_ , anyway?"

"Dynawd."

Tesni broke in. "Dynawd trains everyone on the _zat_ and on the use of the _ma'tok_ , starting at the age of fifteen and a half. Ris began to learn just before midsummer."

Cromwell shook his head. _The kid's not even sixteen yet? He looks older. Either way, he's too goddamn young to be doing what he was trying to do._

Ris was speaking. "I'm one of the best in the class. Dynawd even said so."

The colonel snorted. "Okay, so maybe you're one of the best at, what, shooting at a target? Fine. That might be part of why you managed to hit the Jaffa and not your sister or any of the other children. But you've got a lot to learn about actual fighting of any sort, I can tell you that much. Between last night and what I saw today, you don't do too well when it comes to matching your actions to your situation or to what's going on around you, for one thing. Or to your opponent, either. Last night is a perfect example, because I was going to win that fight regardless. I was training for that kind of thing long before you were born, and I've got size on you. The first might not be obvious to someone without the right background or experience, and you don't have either one, but the second is something anyone can see. Sure, you can take on someone bigger, and even beat them, but only if you know what you're doing. You clearly don't. The fact is, son, if I had wanted you dead right then, you most likely would be." He watched as Ris swallowed hard, but the boy said nothing. After a moment, Cromwell continued. "What you did today... Where did you even get a weapon, and what made you follow those Jaffa? How did your parents, or somebody else, not stop you?"

"The _zat_ belongs to my father, and I know where he keeps it. My mother and my father were both busy trying to hide some of the other children so the Jaffa wouldn't take them too. And I knew that someone had to try to keep them from taking my sister away!" There was defiance in the youth's voice now.

Cromwell massaged his forehead. _So he found his father's weapon, took it, and managed to slip out of the village somehow, without running into Celyn and his people. And then he caught up with the Jaffa just when all hell was about to break loose._

Tesni looked at Ris, an expression of disapproval on her face. "You realize you are in a lot of trouble, don't you? With your mother and father, with the _cadlywydd_ most certainly, and probably with Nenniaw as well, not to mention Dynawd. Celyn, too."

"I was only trying to help, Aunt Tesni."

"I know that, but instead you nearly got killed, could have gotten Tegwyn or someone else from the village killed, and could have even gotten someone who is a guest here" — Tesni gestured at Frank — "killed. None of that is 'helping'."

"I'm sorry." Ris looked down at the table, his voice soft. "Really, I am."

Cromwell spoke again. "Ris, there were already people working on keeping the Jaffa from taking anyone offworld. I want you to promise that from now on, you're going to do what you're told, and if you haven't been told to go tearing off after Jaffa or anyone else with a _zat_ , you won't. Obviously, Dynawd has you and your classmates in training because you will eventually be expected to help defend your village and maybe more than that, but I'm guessing that if you haven't already begun to learn it, you will soon be taught that there are people whose job it is to decide what is to be done, and tell you what your part in it is. It's your job to listen to them and do the task you're given, even if that task sometimes is to wait while somebody else acts." He watched the youth's face, and held up a finger when he appeared ready to protest. "I know that part isn't easy. I still have a hard time with it myself when it's my turn to wait and I'd rather be doing something. Trust me, the people under me don't like it much either. But sometimes it's necessary." _And then once in a while it's a really bad idea,_ he mused, thinking of Iraq, and a rescue mission that General West had never permitted him to carry out. _But that's a whole different topic for a whole different day, so we won't go there just now._

Ris was watching him. "I guess so. I'll try to remember that."

"See that you do." The colonel glanced up to see a lanky man approaching, accompanied by a short, slight woman. Both wore expressions of displeasure, aimed directly at the teenaged boy in front of him. _Must be his parents._

Tesni confirmed this a second later, as she stood, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "Here comes my brother Idris, with Anwen, his wife." she said quietly. As the couple reached the table, Cromwell rose also, noting that Ris looked apprehensive. _Well, hell, he knows he's in trouble._

Tesni made introductions, and the boy's parents nodded gravely when she explained the colonel's role in the events of the afternoon. "I'm sorry my son caused you difficulty," said Idris.

"Not to worry," Cromwell assured him. "I'm just glad he's all right. It was a near thing. If Cadogan didn't have that healing device, he wouldn't be."

Idris nodded. "Our uncle has saved more than a few in his day. In any case, I thank you that Ris was only injured rather than killed. Even Cadogan cannot raise the dead, nor can Sabar."

The colonel shrugged, discomfited. "I did what I had to, and it wasn't just for your son's safety." At the other man's puzzled look, he glanced at Ris, and then back to the boy's father again. "I think Ris ought to explain that to you himself."

Tesni, bless her, picked up on his tactic. "Frehnk, it looks like the _cadlywydd_ will be free soon. Will you come with me to speak to him?" Again, she touched his arm at the elbow, making as if to steer him across the patio toward the far corner where Cadogan indeed appeared to be drawing his staff meeting to a close. "Please excuse us," she said to her brother and sister-in-law. With that, they left Ris to the mercy of his parents.

As they crossed the patio, Tesni murmured, "So I was right. You do have command of others, wherever you are from. I guessed as much."

The colonel nodded. "A small number of men, not many at all."

"Still. You understand." She gave him a sidelong smile. "Nenniaw will come to respect you for that, if he doesn't already after today."

He shook his head. "I doubt I'll be here long enough for it to be an issue. Someone is likely to come looking for me at any time. And that's something that I must discuss with your uncle and those under his command, given the guard now placed at the compass circle. My people will arrive with no idea what to expect, and there may be a Jaffa with them."

Tesni halted at his words, her touch this time drawing him to face her. "A Jaffa?"

"Yes, but one who has renounced the Goa'uld he once served, and now fights against all Goa'uld, the same as do your people and the Tok'ra. He has joined my people in our own fight. I don't know much about him personally other than that, but he is an ally, and under the command of a close friend of mine. I want to make sure that no one jumps to conclusions when seeing him."

"A rebel Jaffa." Cromwell could see her wondering at the concept. "Yes, the _cadlywydd_ must be informed of this immediately."

They resumed their pace toward the corner where Cadogan was now standing, clasping arms with each of his officers in turn, in what the colonel was beginning to recognize as a traditional Pridani greeting and leave-taking. Arriving just as the _cadlywydd_ turned back to the table to retrieve the mug from which he'd been drinking tea, Tesni spoke first. "Uncle, a word with you?"

The older man looked up with a smile for his niece. Dust and smoke still smudged his features somewhat, despite a hasty moment with basin and towel before the meeting, and he wore the look of someone who would be enormously glad of a half hour to himself just to regroup and gather his thoughts. Cromwell could certainly relate, having felt that way himself on any number of occasions after completing a mission. Nevertheless, the Pridani leader's manner was cordial as he responded, "Certainly." He gestured for them to be seated and joined them, thanking Gerlad as the aide took his empty mug away to be refilled. "What can I do for you?" He favored the colonel with a smile as well, adding. "Nice work earlier, by the way. I see that Tesni's judgment was correct, and I'm glad of your help."

"I'm glad I could help. When the Jaffa got hold of those kids..." Cromwell didn't need to finish the sentence; the other man's expression said everything necessary. "Anyway, I'm the one who really needs to speak with you." _How do I approach this without revealing too much?_ he wondered. Some instinct told him it might still be unwise to mention anything that could definitively pin down the identity of his home world before an SG team arrived. "Ah, you'll recall, I hope, that I came here by accident, and I expect a team of people from my world to come looking for me?"

Cadogan nodded. "I do indeed, and I'll admit I'm curious to know more of your story."

Cromwell pursed his lips. "I actually can't tell you much more, because even I'm not completely certain how it happened." That much was true, at least technically. He'd never expected to survive his fall through the stargate, and the fact that he had still amazed him.

Fortunately, Cadogan seemed inclined to take his statement at face value. "Gate malfunctions are rare, but they can lead to... unusual situations," he agreed. "Are you certain your friends will know where to find you? Perhaps if you can tell me what world you are from, I can help you."

The colonel shook his head. "Not only do I not know the symbols for its gate address, but I have no idea what name your people would call my world, even if you might know of it at all, which I rather doubt." He could have shown the _cadlywydd_ the symbol he'd been told was unique to Earth, but that same instinct that prompted him to caution prevented him from doing so. This was still an unknown situation, and if for whatever reason Earth's defenses were compromised due to the loss of the iris, or other damage that might have occurred after his fall into the wormhole, the last thing anyone at the SGC needed was unknown and unexpected visitors accessing their gate. Better to wait a while for the SGC to send a team for him, even if that meant he didn't get home right away. If a long enough time went by without anyone showing up, he would take that to mean they didn't know where to look or that he might have survived, in which case he would then take matters into his own hands. For right now, however, he could afford to wait. _Besides,_ he told himself, _what are the chances he can even help me? From what I understand, there are thousands, perhaps millions, of gates on as many worlds. No, the only way I'm getting home is if someone comes looking for me. I just hope they hurry up_.

Cadogan shook his head. "A pity. Still, you clearly have something on your mind you wished to speak with me about?"

"Yes, actually. You've placed the compass circle under guard, which is a wise move. Is this going to be a long-term thing?"

The _cadlywydd_ nodded. "I think it's best, at least for the foreseeable future. When Bel doesn't get his tribute, his slaves, or even his Jaffa back from Tir Awyr, he will know that something is afoot here. That's fine, since it was going to happen soon anyway." Gerlad returned at that moment with a fresh cup of tea, which Cadogan took with a word of thanks before turning back to his conversation with Cromwell. "You'll pardon me, I hope. That was a lot of talking earlier, and my throat is still dry." He sipped at the tea, then continued with his original line of thought. "Bel's unlikely to send ships here to investigate or retaliate, because at the moment, our operatives have seen to it that he is, shall we say, a bit lacking in those resources." A grin. "He doesn't have many ships to begin with, as he doesn't need them, given that the _chappa'ai_ system suffices for most transport. And as of yesterday, he has a half-dozen fewer ships than he had before. No, any action he takes against us here will be through the _chappa'ai_ itself, which is why we will keep it heavily guarded."

Cromwell nodded. "That's fine. Where it concerns me, or rather, my situation, is that obviously anyone arriving here from my world will encounter your guards. A team from my world will be friendly, and will try to communicate, but if they are met right away by an armed guard, I worry about the potential for misunderstandings. They do travel armed, and on the alert for any trouble."

The older man shook his head. "My people won't harm them if it is clear they come with peaceful intent. Dynawd is a good commander, and anyone else who would be put in charge at the _chappa'a_ i at any time will be as well. Those with poor judgment don't get positions of responsibility under my command, so you needn't worry on that account."

"No one's going to shoot first and ask questions later, is that what you're telling me?" Cromwell was just a bit skeptical. The _cadlywydd_ was making one hell of a promise.

Cadogan smiled. "Not unless whoever comes through the gate is Goa'uld or Jaffa. And I plan to have one Tok'ra in every guard rotation. We'll know if a Goa'uld comes through."

The colonel didn't pretend to understand that last statement, but it was the first sentence that was problematic. "Actually, you've touched on my concern. My people are opposed to the Goa'uld just as strongly as yours are, and fight them and their Jaffa when we encounter them. But there is one Jaffa I know of who has renounced his allegiance to the Goa'uld he formerly served, and he has allied himself with the people of my world against all Goa'uld. He serves under the command of a close friend of mine, who may be leading the team of people sent to look for me. So it is possible that when my friend comes looking for me, this Jaffa will be with him."

The _cadlywydd_ 's eyes widened. "A rebel Jaffa? I've heard rumors of their existence, but no more than that. Jaffa are far too dependent upon their Goa'uld masters to rebel. They face certain death without a supply of _prim'ta_ to sustain them." He fell silent for a moment, as though following some internal conversation. Belatedly, Cromwell realized that he probably was, given that he hosted a Tok'ra symbiote. Clearly, he'd given both entities food for thought.

Cadogan spoke again. "Even any Jaffa who might entertain doubts about the godhood of their masters, and I don't doubt that a few such individuals exist, are unlikely to turn openly against them. The risk would be too great for them to take willingly."

"This one has. I've met him, and he has sworn to oppose all Goa'uld. He's a good man."

"Hmmm." The Pridani leader's expression was thoughtful. "I'm going to have to give this some consideration. In the meantime, I'll send someone to inform Dynawd, and I'll make the situation clear to Nenniaw and Celyn as well, since those three will have command of the guard rotations, at least for the time being. They'll be told to be very careful with anyone arriving through the gate who isn't immediately recognizable as belonging either to our own people or to Bel. Will that do for now?"

Cromwell nodded. "Fair enough, and thank you. Oh, and I can give some idea of what my people will look like, in terms of appearance and uniform, since then yours will at least have some way to identify them." He outlined the basic appearance of an SG team, giving just enough information to identify them without going into more detail than was necessary.

It was the _cadlywydd_ 's turn to nod. "All right, then; I'll see this gets passed along. I'm glad you came to me with it now; I'd hate to have had anything untoward happen. I don't want any harm to come to your friends if it can be avoided, as long as avoiding it doesn't endanger my own people. You understand my position in that regard, I'm sure."

"I do." _I just hope that what we've discussed is enough to avoid problems, on both ends._

Cadogan nodded again. "Well, then. For as long as you remain among us, you are a guest. Normally, we wouldn't put guests to work like that" — here the _cadlywydd_ grinned again — "but as you can see, today was quite an exception. Again, my thanks for helping out. You're obviously no stranger to the field, and I appreciate your actions with regard to Ris, as well."

"Ah... about that. It wasn't quite the way it might have looked. When I tackled him, I was trying to prevent his firing on the Jaffa, because the children were right there and I was afraid he might hit one of them instead. I was just a bit too late to stop him, though." Cromwell shook his head. "So while I may have kept him from taking a direct hit, it wouldn't have happened at all if he hadn't tried that stupid stunt in the first place — or if I'd been a bit faster."

"Oh, trust me; I'm going to talk to him. And I'm glad to know the details. Ris is somewhat... well, overenthusiastic, for want of a better term."

"Rash, I'd call it." The colonel realized they were firmly on common ground. "I've, ah, already had a talk with him myself, for that matter. I hope you don't mind my taking the liberty," he added, fully aware that he'd have said something to the youth regardless.

Cadogan chuckled. "Not at all. He's likely to hear it from several people, and the more he does, the more good it will do him. I don't know what you're used to, but we're fairly informal around here. You're certainly not overstepping anything in saying whatever you said to him, as far as I'm concerned. Besides, his actions endangered you too, clearly. That alone would give you the right."

"I'm glad we agree."

The _cadlywydd_ gave him another smile. "I know you're probably feeling a bit out of step here, but don't worry. Like I said, you're a guest, and from what I've seen, a useful one at that. Let Tesni get you settled, and relax." He turned to her. "You've found some decent accommodation for our friend, I assume?"

"He spent last night under my roof, but for a longer stay, he would be more comfortable in better quarters," she replied. "There is an empty dwelling at the moment, since Aled and Glesig wed last week."

"Do it. If Nenniaw had other plans, send him to me." Cadogan looked Cromwell over critically, noting the charred and torn shirt. "I think we can find you some decent clothing as well. You're taller than many here, but not enough so for it to be a problem. In fact, you're about my size, or close enough." He looked at Tesni again. "You know that chest in my room at Idris and Anwen's house. There's a blue tunic, and a brown one; give him those. Both pair of blue trews, as well. And anything else he requires. I'll be going back to Caer Ynys tomorrow, at least for a few days, and probably have more clothing there than I need. I can spare a few of the things I keep here."

The colonel protested. "I don't need — "

Cadogan smiled. "Yes, you do, and custom demands it of us. Of me, if nothing else. Frank — I am pronouncing that correctly, aren't I?"

"You are."

"Well, Frank, there is a concept we call guest-right, and I'm surprised no one has explained it to you yet. A man, or woman, may arrive as a stranger among us, but barring some dire misbehavior on the part of the guest, we count ourselves obligated to provide for his or her basic needs, including food, shelter, and if necessary, clothing. It is the same in any village, town or other settlement among our people. You arrived here with the clothes on your back, and moreover you ruined them in the service of our own cause. We'd be pretty poor hosts if we didn't remedy that, don't you think?"

"Honestly, I — " Cromwell began again. _Damn it, I don't need charity._

The older man cut him off. "Hear me out, if you would. I don't know whether you'll still be here tomorrow, or the day after, and from the sound of things, neither do you. But you were one of us today, and we take care of our own. I'm responsible for your involvement; if I hadn't agreed to it, you'd still be in Dinas Coedwyg right now. That makes you my responsibility overall, but even if you weren't, you're a guest of the village as a whole, and you have been since the moment you were brought within its walls. Do I need to explain myself further?"

 _Jesus._ "I suppose not."

The Pridani leader grinned, then. "Good, because that's all I've got, anyway. Let Tesni show you where you'll be staying, and where to get cleaned up. She'll get you something to wear, and give you a chance to settle in. Because whether you're going to be here for a day or a month, you may as well be comfortable."

Cromwell had the distinct feeling he'd just been outmaneuvered by an expert, but at this point, he didn't feel inclined to continue arguing. He thanked Cadogan and allowed Tesni to show him to the small cottage — essentially the mirror image of her own home — where he would be staying. Perhaps the most inviting thing about the place was that it was furnished, including a fairly comfortable-looking bed, even devoid as it was of any bedding at the moment. When Tesni excused herself to go and retrieve the clothing the cadlywydd had so generously offered, along with some other items she said she could obtain for him, the colonel decided to try to make up a bit more of the sleep he'd missed in the past couple of days.

It was his last coherent thought for several hours.


	13. A Stormy Night

Carter woke to the sound of rain drumming on the tent, and pressure in her bladder from the coffee she'd had not long before lying down. Unlike some people, Carter found that having caffeine shortly before bed didn't keep her awake if she really wanted to sleep, but coffee had other ways of awakening her in the middle of the night. For some reason, this only seemed to happen on offworld missions, and then only if there was inclement weather. She thought she'd smelled rain on the breeze shortly before they'd turned in for the night, but she'd hoped she was wrong. Obviously, however, her nose had been correct.

Sighing, she wriggled her way out of the sleeping bag and situated her clothing before unzipping the tent. Teal'c was standing watch, his face impassive in the light of the dying campfire. He had pulled on a waterproof poncho and pushed the hood up, and now waited stoically for the rain to stop. Stopping to pull on her own poncho, Carter made her way out of the tent and off into the shadows to duck behind a large standing stone. Reappearing a few moments later, she approached the campfire and heard muffled grumbling from the other tent. A plaintive "For cryin' out loud!" reached her ears, followed by the sound of the tent unzipping, and Colonel O'Neill emerged into the rainfall, which had intensified in just the short time since Carter had left her own tent. Blinking sleepily, Daniel followed him.

"I really hope it isn't going to do this all night," complained the colonel as he moved off into the darkness, likely on the same errand from which Carter had just returned. Daniel pulled up the hood of his poncho and came to stand next to Carter, watching the fire, or what was left of it. Teal'c added another log, and the flames blazed up, hissing in the wetness. Carter watched Daniel remove his glasses and wipe raindrops from them before putting them back on, only to repeat the process a moment later. Frowning, he shook his head and tucked them into a pocket of his field jacket instead, beneath the rain poncho.

Lightning split the sky as O'Neill returned. Several seconds later, an enormous clap of thunder shook the air. The rain redoubled in intensity, becoming a deluge that threatened to drown their campfire. "I believe this storm will grow stronger before it abates," observed Teal'c.

"Ya think?" The colonel threw him a scowl and turned to the pile of equipment left behind by SG-5. Pulling out a large wad of heavy plastic sheeting, he began to unfold it. "Carter, Daniel, let's throw these tarps over the top of the tents and see if we can't keep things at least a little drier, okay? Now that we know Frank's been in the area, I really don't want to leave if we don't have to, in case he comes back to the stargate."

Together, they managed to drape the plastic over the tents and stake it down, the spikes biting deep into the muddy ground. A gust of wind tried to tear one corner of the tarp from O'Neill's hand as he positioned the last stake, and he swore. Lightning sizzled through the air again, and this time was followed more quickly by thunder that caused the very ground to vibrate. The colonel turned his face skyward and swore again. "Damn it, I didn't ask for this kind of weather!"

Carter turned her own toward the nearby stargate. They had set up camp just outside the ring defined by the cinderblock-sized stones encircling the flagstoned plaza, which meant that the gate itself was only thirty feet away. "Sir, the stargate could act as a lightning attractor. This might not be the safest place to be right now. I estimate the lightning strikes to be no more than five miles away."

"I know that, Captain. I can do the math." O'Neill looked around. "I don't really want to go off into the woods, and just sitting out here getting poured on for the next however many hours doesn't sound too great, either."

"Unless we want to leave now and go back to Earth, the woods are the safest choice," Carter told him. "We could try to make it back to that village, if you want."

Her CO shook his head. "No, there isn't time for that. The storm's too close." He glanced at the sky again, then back toward the stargate. "Do you think it would be safe to dial out right now and leave, or would that risk attracting a lightning strike?"

"If we do it fast, I think we'll be all right," she responded. "But we should go now, before the strikes get any closer."

O'Neill thought for a moment. _Frank's not gonna come out here to the gate in this kind of weather, either. He knows better. And even if he did, he'd at least know we'd been here, and that we'll be back, since we're leaving gear behind._ "Okay, campers, there's no sense hanging out here if it's gonna be like this for the next several hours. Grab whatever can't be left in the storm and let's go. Carter, dial it up. We'll grab some sleep and some dry clothes at the SGC and check back in a few hours to see if the storm's passed."

General Hammond came to meet them as they descended the ramp in the Gate Room. O'Neill double-checked his watch against the clock on the wall and his mental estimate of the time on the planet they had just left. Local time at Cheyenne Mountain wasn't far off apparent time at the stargate on P2A-870. "You're here late, sir," he commented.

"Catching up on paperwork, given recent events," replied the general. "I didn't think you would return tonight unless you'd located Colonel Cromwell. I take it you ran into nasty weather?" Hammond glanced at the puddle forming rapidly on the floor as rainwater dripped off SG-1's wet-weather gear.

"Big honkin' thunderstorm," said O'Neill, "with lightning strikes too close to our camp for comfort, and no place else to really go before it got directly over us. I decided we should come back here for a few hours and wait it out. There's an item or two I'd like to get, anyway."

Hammond nodded. "Of course. SG-5 gave me their report, and said you were requesting a photo from the base security system to show the natives so they could identify the colonel. I take it you found firm evidence of his presence on the planet?"

"Oh, yeah." O'Neill dug in his pocket and showed the general the unit coin he'd retrieved from the stream. "Cromwell's there, somewhere."

The general nodded. "I see. Go dry off and get some sleep, all of you. I'll probably stay on base myself, given how late it is. We can meet at 07:00 for debriefing before you return to P2A-870."

"Thank you, sir."

 

***

 

Oh-seven-hundred saw SG-1 and Hammond seated around the conference table with a fresh pot of coffee. "I've already had Lt. Simmons dial P2A-870 and take MALP telemetry this morning," the general began. "It appears there is still a severe storm in the vicinity of the gate, with heavy lightning and torrential rain. I believe that for safety's sake, you should wait before returning to the planet. We'll continue to check back periodically until the storm abates."

O'Neill groaned. Rested – well, as much as he could be, given the late hour of their arrival – showered, shaved, dressed in dry clothes and fully caffeinated, he was anxious to return to the search. On the other hand, the only difference between a blinding thunderstorm in the dead of night and one during daylight hours was the degree to which that search would be hampered. He knew the difficulty of tracking someone in the rain in familiar territory; trying to do so on an unfamiliar planet would make finding a needle in a haystack seem like child's play. With any luck, Frank had found shelter; perhaps even a friendly settlement. "I suppose there's no chance of sending a UAV to get an idea of what else is in the area? Pinpoint the location of settlements besides the one we found, potential shelter, that kind of thing?"

Carter fielded that question. "Not in the type of weather we encountered last night, sir."

Hammond agreed. "We can try that after the storm passes, Colonel, but not until then. Suppose you tell me more about this settlement you encountered? I gather the natives were friendly?"

"They seemed to be. Daniel can tell you more, obviously."

The archaeologist took his cue. "Well, General, the locals we met appear to be descended from people taken from the British Isles, and they call themselves the Pridani, which I'd say is a variant of the word 'Priteni' or 'Briteni', a general name for the tribes inhabiting much of Britain during the Iron Age and the Roman period. I'd guess they were relocated to P2A-870 – which they call 'Tir Awyr' or 'land in the sky' – sometime around two thousand years ago, give or take a couple of centuries, based on linguistic changes. The language spoken in the village we visited is strongly similar to Welsh, which didn't actually differentiate itself as separate from other Brythonic languages until about fifteen hundred years ago. The grammar and syntax are almost identical, and the vocabulary is similar as well, except that there have been shifts in some of the vowel sounds, and a few of the consonants too. Basically, it comes out sounding like a different dialect, though to someone who speaks a modern Welsh dialect, it would probably be intelligible enough, given exposure and practice."

A memory was pinging the back of O'Neill's brain. He snapped his fingers as it coalesced. "Cromwell _can_ speak Welsh. In fact, I think he's fluent in it, or at least close."

Four sets of eyes turned toward the colonel. "Excuse me?" said Daniel.

"I wasn't even thinking of this yesterday, because you said 'Brythonic' and didn't mention Welsh," O'Neill explained, toying with his coffee cup, "but I recall Frank telling me years ago that his grandmother was originally from Wales, and actually spoke the language. She taught it to him when he was growing up, the way some immigrants will do with their kids and grandkids. He said he remembered most of what she taught him, because they used it pretty extensively in her home, and he spent his summers living with her and his grandfather, all the way up through his teens. Frank and I had some time off once, when we were stationed in Germany, and we spent it poking around in the UK. He insisted on taking a train trip through part of Wales to see where she'd grown up. Ran into some stuff written in Welsh, and a few people speaking it. He was able to translate both."

"Wow," said Carter. "The odds that he'd speak the one language that might actually do him some good on a planet he wound up on completely by accident…" She trailed off, shaking her head.

"I know. It's a little freaky." O'Neill looked at Daniel. "So, you think that if Frank has met up with the natives, he can probably communicate at least somewhat?"

Daniel shrugged. "It's entirely possible. If he can, then that's a lucky break for him. It would at least increase his chances of being able to request help from them, should he need it."

"That's good to know," Hammond commented. "Did you notice any sign of Goa'uld activity on the planet?"

Teal'c answered first. "I saw nothing that said to me that they have been there recently, although there were indications that they might have been in the past."

O'Neill picked up the narrative. "We saw scars on the landscape that might be – _might_ , nothing definite – from an aerial or spaceborne attack, possibly as long as several decades ago. Could be Goa'uld, could be something else, I suppose. My money would be on the Goa'uld, though."

Daniel spoke up. "Interestingly enough, Rhodri, the Pridanic man we spoke with, barely batted an eye when he saw Teal'c. I know he recognized him as Jaffa, because he commented on his forehead tattoo, but when I explained that Teal'c was a Jaffa who had renounced the Goa'uld and now fought against them, he stopped asking questions. So obviously, the Pridani are familiar with the Goa'uld and the Jaffa, but for some reason the idea of a Jaffa who has turned against the Goa'uld doesn't faze them. Or at least, it didn't seem to surprise Rhodri much."

"So what you're saying is that the Pridani are familiar with the Goa'uld, but gave no indication that they are currently active on their world?" The general looked puzzled.

"That's the impression I got, based on my conversation with Rhodri," replied Daniel.

"Sir," said Carter, turning to the general, "we have been invited back to possibly initiate trade, completely separate from our search for Colonel Cromwell."

"I see. Does it seem like they might have anything of real value to us?"

Carter frowned. "It's hard to say, sir. We didn't get a very good look at their village, but it didn't appear highly technological. Then again, they could have mineral resources that might prove useful. A source of naquadah would be helpful, and the planet may well have it."

Hammond nodded. "Then you have authorization to look into the possibility." He slid a folder across the table to O'Neill. "Colonel, you asked for a photo of Colonel Cromwell to aid in identifying him to the inhabitants of P2A-870. It seems the security cameras didn't record properly due to the difference in time passage rates between the lower levels of the SGC and the upper levels where the computer that controls them is located… or so the security department tells me. However, I was able to obtain a recent photo from Air Force personnel records for you to use."

O'Neill took the folder. "Thank you, sir."

"One question, Colonel?"

"Yes sir?"

"I'm curious about that unit coin. Where did you find it on the planet?"

O'Neill shook his head. "It was the damnedest thing, sir. I found it half-buried in a streambed, not more than a mile from the village we visited – Daniel, what was the name of that place?"

"Llanavon."

"Yeah. Anyway, it was in the stream, just below a bridge. All I can figure is that Frank dropped it somehow. It can't have been too long before we came that way, because otherwise it would have been buried completely in the silt. It was already half-covered when I found it."

"So he has to have been in the area of that village, even if he didn't visit the village itself," Hammond mused. "And you say that even when you described him, this Rhodri claimed not to have encountered any such person?"

"To be fair," broke in Daniel, "Rhodri did say there are other settlements in the area. The bridge appeared to be part of a trail linking two or more of them with the stargate."

"Good enough, then. We'll continue to monitor weather conditions near the planet's stargate, and as soon as the storm lets up enough to continue the search, you have a Go to return to P2A-870 and do so. Will you require further assistance from SG-5?"

O'Neill nodded. "I wouldn't mind the extra hands, sir."

"Then they'll return with you. I'll inform Lieutenant Barber. In the meantime, we'll dial P2A-870 every two hours and query the MALP." The general stood. "Please, Colonel, Captain, use the time you're waiting here as downtime." He held up a hand as O'Neill began to protest. "I know that Dr. Fraiser cleared you for duty, but I also know that you're still recovering from injuries. Do me a favor, and take it easy while you wait out the storm." He turned to Carter. "And don't think I'm not aware how many all-nighters you pulled recently. Not that they weren't necessary, but I'd like you all to be at your best when you go back to that planet." He looked from one to the other, and then at the rest of SG-1. "Dismissed."

As they made their way from the conference room, O'Neill turned to Daniel. "You're sure that Rhodri didn't find the concept of a rebel Jaffa strange?"

"It's hard to say for sure, Jack, but he didn't say much once I explained the situation. If he had doubts or concerns, he certainly hid them well."

"Just seems odd to me," the colonel mused aloud, "that he'd let it go just like that, if he's had any experience with Jaffa."

Teal'c spoke from behind them. "We have visited many worlds where people mistrusted me, O'Neill. We have also visited worlds where people accepted me once you or Daniel Jackson explained my presence in your party. This may simply be another such instance."

"He's right, Colonel," said Carter. "We really won't know more until we've talked to the Pridani at length. I'm very curious to find out what resources they may have available as a basis for trade, though. If they do have naquadah – "

"If they have naquadah, Carter, then you can almost bet they've had Goa'uld, too, at some point. The question is when were they last there, and what happened since then?"

"Well, sir, there's only one way to find out."

"I know that. All I'm saying is, everybody stay on their toes. There may be a lot more going on than meets the eye, all right?"

"Understood, sir." The captain nodded.

"Indeed," intoned Teal'c.

"Daniel?" O'Neill looked at the younger man.

"I don't disagree, Jack. But like Sam said, there's only one way to find out. Obviously, I'll pay careful attention to what is said – and to what isn't."

The colonel nodded, satisfied. "Okay. Now I just hope the storm lets up soon so we can get back there and get on with it."


	14. A Waiting Game

_"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects."_ \- Lazarus Long (R.A. Heinlein, _The Notebooks of Lazarus Long_ )

 

Cromwell woke to the sound of footsteps in the outer room. Shadows danced on the wall as the light of a candle spilled through the open doorway to the bedroom. He sat up, checking his watch. He'd slept for several hours, and felt better than he had since before leaving the BOQ at Peterson. A glance out the window confirmed what the watch told him: it was deep dusk. He stood, moving to the doorway, assuming that Tesni had returned. Instead, he found Tegwyn. She was lighting a lamp on the table, next to a cloth-covered basket. A second, much larger basket occupied the settle beneath the windows at the main room's far end. As he watched, Ris appeared through the front door with a third basket, the same size as the second.

Tegwyn looked up and noticed him watching her and her brother. "Oh, good; you're awake. How do you feel?"

"I'm fine, though I certainly didn't plan on sleeping this long."

Tegwyn smiled. "Aunt Tesni came back with some things for you earlier, but when she saw you asleep, she decided to let you be. You've missed dinner, but she sent food for you." The girl indicated the basket on the table. "Go ahead and eat while we put some things away, and then Ris is to show you to the baths. I imagine you'll find it a welcome visit."

 _Baths?_ The villagers used communal baths? It sounded almost Roman, or perhaps Japanese. Cromwell had to admit, though, that it also sounded like heaven right about now. He crossed to the table and pulled the cloth from the top of the basket, finding bread, cheese, meat and fruit, along with a stone bottle that, when he removed the stopper, proved to contain cider. Realizing he'd had nothing of substance since breakfast that morning, he ate as the two teens bustled about, deftly setting up housekeeping for him in this new space. He felt vaguely guilty that they'd been put to all this trouble, as he didn't anticipate being here long. But Cadogan had made it clear that this was the way things would be, and Cromwell had already seen it was useless to argue. Besides, this was the _cadlywydd_ 's turf, apparently, and the colonel found himself ill-disposed to make waves at the moment. Not to mention that having his own private quarters beat sleeping on someone's floor, all else being equal.

He watched as Ris carried the two larger baskets into the bedroom. Sounds of fabric rustling reached his ears; he would have bedding tonight, he surmised. Tegwyn emerged back into the main room a few moments later. "You have some of our uncle Cadogan's clothing for right now, along with several other items you may need. After Ris takes you to bathe and dress, Cadogan asks that you join him and Aunt Tesni where you spoke earlier."

That answered the question he'd been about to ask. Tesni was with her uncle. Through the open window came a faint babble of voices and the occasional phrase of music played on what sounded like stringed instruments and flutes. Cromwell caught the sound of some sort of hand drum as well. It appeared that the villagers were having some type of social gathering. For a moment, he wondered if he could politely decline, but then shook off the feeling. No, these people seemed kind and welcoming, and the last thing he wished to do was alienate them by refusing an invitation, especially from the man who'd essentially insisted on taking responsibility for his well-being. Nor Tesni, who had been looking out for him almost since the moment of his arrival among them.

Finishing his dinner, he glanced around to find Ris watching him. "Are you ready?" asked the youth.

"I guess I am."

Tegwyn handed him a bundle. "The clothing ought to fit you well enough," she said. "I will see you both in a little while." With that, she began to clear the table as they left.

The baths, it turned out, occupied a low stone building two streets over, which was divided into what must be men's and women's sides. Cromwell and Ris had the men's half to themselves at the moment. The air inside was warm and humid, though Cromwell noted that elaborately screened open windows provided plenty of fresh air. Oil lamps provided illumination, and shelves lined one wall, providing space for bathers to put clothing and towels. The place indeed reminded him of a Japanese bath he'd once visited: utilitarian but comfortable, neither ostentatious nor crude. Clear, fresh water flowed through two bathing-pools, one larger and one smaller. A slight haze of moisture rose from the larger pool; apparently it was the hotter of the two. No stranger to communal shower facilities, he viewed this as similar and wasted no time in stripping down. If he were lucky, the water in the large pool would be hot enough to ease the sore muscles he'd acquired through the day's activities plus all that had gone before since he'd entered the gravity well in the gate room back at the SGC. Dipping a hand in before committing himself, he was mildly surprised to find that this was indeed the case. He sniffed the air, but couldn't detect smoke, which he would expect if a furnace were in use somewhere in the building. "What heats the water?" he asked Ris, who was busy unpacking items from the bundle that Tegwyn had sent with them.

The youth shrugged, handing him a cake of astringently herbal-smelling soap and a cloth, before turning to shake out a towel. "It comes that way, from the ground. There are channels that cool what goes into the smaller pool somewhat, for washing. The larger is for soaking afterward."

 _Geothermal springs?_ Well, that was convenient, the colonel supposed. Though outwardly unsophisticated, the village clearly boasted at least one pleasant surprise.

A wash and a hot soak did wonders, and a short while later, he found himself far less sore and much more comfortable. The bundle Tegwyn had given him had included not only clothing but a set of shaving gear. God, how many years had it been since the one time he'd tried a straight-razor shave on himself? That had nothing on the more primitive implement in use here, but on the other hand, he'd spent his entire adult life clean-shaven and he wasn't about to change that now. He forged ahead, managing to complete the task with minimal bloodshed, though he was thoroughly grateful for possessing steady hands. It was amazing how a ritual that could be soothing on Earth, with modern equipment and supplies, became quite a different matter when you changed the venue and the tools involved.

Clean, relieved of at least the worst of the aches, freshly-shaved and dressed in a manner similar to the men of Llanavon - until you looked at his boots, anyway - he decided he was more or less ready to face whatever situation awaited him as the result of Cadogan's invitation. It wasn't that he felt particularly awkward in social gatherings, nor even that he actively avoided them under normal circumstances, because neither was true. Rather, it had been years since his life had felt anything remotely close to what he considered normal, and he'd kept largely to himself over that time, except for whatever interaction was a completely necessary part of his role as a military officer. However, he was a stranger among these people, and he supposed it was better to be friendly than stand-offish, so he would put on his social face and do his best to function in step with whatever was the custom here. _When in Rome, indeed._

It was full dark outside, but Ris handed him a lantern. "Go and find my aunt and the _cadlywydd_ ," the youth told him. "I'll take everything back to your house and see you in a while."

The colonel snorted. "You don't have to tote things around for me, son. I'll do it myself."

Ris shook his head. "Haven't you heard? I'm in disgrace at the moment, and must work my way out. This is but one of the tasks I've been set." He grinned. "I don't mind. Helping a guest is never unpleasant, and you did save my life. My uncle decided that assigning me to assist you in getting settled was appropriate, and my mother and father agreed. I've had worse jobs."

Cromwell ducked his head to hide a grin of his own. Okay, so it appeared he'd acquired a helper of sorts, under the guise of the young man's penance. Fair enough, he supposed. Ris was perhaps more mature than he'd first appeared, given that he seemed to understand exactly what was going on, and was fully cooperative. In any case, it was clear they'd both been maneuvered into this situation by Cadogan. _Fine; I'll play along._

"I see," he said. "Well, then, go and do whatever you've been told to, and thank you." Dismissing the youth with a nod, the colonel set off toward the square.

Most of the villagers were out and about, if the number of people he encountered was any indication. Lanterns lit the covered patio to one side of the square, and a small group of musicians occupied one corner, seated on benches that had been drawn together. Cromwell noted a small harp, something resembling a lute or mandolin, a couple of flutelike instruments, and a small, flat drum with an open back, played with a stick. As he watched, another player slipped into the group, equipped with what could only be a primitive bagpipe. It had a leather bag and a single drone. The colonel realized the players were arranged in a loose circle, rather than facing outward in the way one might expect in a public performance. _Jam session?_

Threading his way among the tables, he spotted Tesni and Cadogan absorbed in conversation with Idris and Anwen on the far side of the roofed structure, and headed in their direction. Tesni gave him a smile as he approached, detaching herself from the others and coming to meet him a slight distance away. "There you are," she said. "I'm pleased you decided to join us. I hope you don't mind my letting you sleep through dinner. It seemed to me that you could use rest more than anything else just then."

"Probably true," he replied. Tesni had, after all, seen him at his exhausted worst. "Thank you." He glanced around, taking in the gathered villagers, the musicians, and the relaxed, slightly festive air. It seemed just a bit surreal after the events of the afternoon, and the loss of six people. Though the dead had all come from Dinas Coedwyg, as far as he could tell, Cromwell found it difficult to believe that none of them had friends or family here in Llanavon who might mourn them. Turning back to Tesni, he gestured about at their surroundings. "What's the occasion?"

Her expression grew perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, given what happened earlier, I suppose I expected everyone to be... I don't know..." He shrugged. "Six people died today. I guess I expected that to have a certain effect on everyone. Instead, this looks more like a celebration."

Understanding bloomed on her face. "Ah, I see. The dead were from Dinas Coedwyg. Three of them did have family here, and those family members have already left to go there. Don't think that the rest of us won't mourn all six in our own way, too, though most of us didn't know them well. But the living do go on with life. Is it different among your people?"

"I suppose it isn't." Cromwell fell silent, contemplating the issue. How many times hadn't he and Jack returned from missions where others had been lost, only to spend hours in the officers' club or rec area, trying to fill the void left behind with normalcy, however forced it might be? Until the day when he'd returned injured and alone, without Jack at his side, and with a void that nothing could fill, even after his physical wounds had healed... He shook his head abruptly. That was in the past, and he'd finally fixed things. Hadn't he? All he had to do now was wait. Jack would come for him, or would send someone to find him and bring him home. Tomorrow, maybe; or the next day. Perhaps even tonight. Everything would be fine then.

Tesni was regarding him curiously, and he belatedly realized that she had asked him another question. "I'm sorry," he said. "What was that again?"

"I just wondered where you'd gone for a moment there. Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine. I was just thinking." He mustered a smile, at least outwardly. "Bad habit of mine."

Her answering smile was understanding. "It happens to all of us." She placed a hand on his shoulder, steering him toward Cadogan, Idris and Anwen, and talking as she went. "Anyway, you asked what the occasion was, and there isn't one, nor is this a celebration. It's simply that tonight is a pleasant night, tomorrow is traditionally a rest day, and there will be plenty of time for sitting indoors when winter comes. You might call this a 'gather night', and it isn't uncommon for many of us to spend the evening this way, especially in high summer. What do the people of your world do for entertainment?"

Cromwell cast about for an answer that would make sense. "Nothing so different, actually, now that I think about it," he said slowly. He could just picture himself trying to explain movies, television, organized sports, nightclubs, the internet... _Yeah, that's gonna happen._

As they joined the others, Cadogan saved him from the need to elaborate. "Good evening, Frank. I trust that Ris made sure you have what you need?"

The colonel nodded. "He has. In fact, he's been very helpful." It was true, and assuring the _cadlywydd_ knew it wouldn't hurt any.

"I'm glad to hear that," commented Anwen. "My son may have been somewhat hasty this afternoon, but he's a good boy."

"He certainly seems to be," agreed Cromwell. "And I do appreciate his assistance."

Cadogan smiled. "It was only right that he do so." Changing the subject, he went on, "I've had word that the Jaffa who went north to the mines have been disposed of. And I've passed your concerns regarding your friends along to all of those tasked with guarding the _chappa'ai_."

"About that," said the colonel. "I would like to be added to the rotation, if I may."

The _cadlywydd_ nodded. "I see. You will have a chance, then, of being present when your friends arrive. We'll be happy to have your help. The guard changes three times a day, and Celyn's party goes out tomorrow at noon. I will instruct him to include you among their number."

"Thank you."

 

***

 

Cromwell spent shifts at the stargate on each of the next six days, twice with Tesni assigned to the guard detail as well, but there was no sign of anyone from the SGC. Mercifully, no Jaffa showed up, either. The only comings and goings were of Cadogan and his aide, a half-dozen assorted off-worlders from elsewhere in Bel's domain who showed up to confer with the _cadlywydd_ , and four Tok'ra who took rotation among the guards so that there was always someone on watch who could detect even disguised Goa'uld or Jaffa.

Back in Llanavon, the cottage he occupied began to take on a collection of items aimed at making his existence among the Pridani a more comfortable one. Every day when he returned from the compass circle with the others, he would find something that had been left for him: additional clothing, an extra oil lamp, dishes and eating utensils, a rather nice drinking mug, a spare blanket, what he would have sworn was someone's new cloak, and a pair of sandals that somehow managed to fit and which provided a welcome change from wearing the same pair of boots during all his waking hours. A familiar-looking carved woodpecker greeted him on the sixth day, the decorative item resting atop a neatly-folded pile of deep blue fabric that, when he shook it out, proved to be a soft woolen tunic with bands of embroidered knotwork in cream, gray and pale blue around neckline, cuffs and hem. It showed no sign of having been worn, and he shook his head, laying the garment aside on the table as he sat down to remove his boots. Slipping his feet into the sandals he'd been given, the colonel went in search of Tesni.

He found her in the communal kitchen behind the patio, shaping dough into loaves in the company of another woman and two boys around the same age as Ris. She looked up as he stepped into view, greeting him pleasantly. Setting the finished loaves aside to rise, she excused herself with a word to the other woman, then gestured for him to accompany her to the patio area. Flour dusted the apron she wore, and there was a smudge of it on her nose. Cromwell fought the sudden inexplicable urge to brush it off, settling instead for pointing it out to her. She lifted a corner of her apron and wiped it away, then sat down at one of the tables, leaning her back against it. "Was there something you needed? Have your friends arrived?"

The colonel shook his head, taking a seat next to her on the bench. "They haven't, though any day now..." He stopped, studying his feet for a moment before speaking again. "Listen, I know your people take this business of looking after guests pretty seriously, but really, I have everything I need right now. I honestly don't expect to be here much longer."

She looked confused. "I know that. It seems I've missed something, however?"

"Well, between what your uncle gave me and the other other items that have shown up, I have several days' worth of clothing. But I don't need things that are new, Tesni. I don't want anyone going to that much trouble."

Her blank look told him that she had no clue what he was talking about, and he elaborated. "The other day, someone left me a cloak that doesn't even look like it's been worn. Today I found what looks like a brand-new tunic. A fancy one, embroidered, and while I don't even pretend to know much about such things, I'm pretty sure that a lot of work went into it. Whoever that was made for doesn't need to go giving it away or loaning it out or whatever."

The blank look faded, replaced by humor. "I think I know what you're talking about. You should go and have this conversation with Anwen, not me."

"Anwen? Don't tell me she made it?"

"That would be my guess. And it probably didn't take her anywhere near as much work as you're thinking, or at least she wouldn't have looked at it that way. Anwen is one of the most skilled tailors in Llanavon, and she genuinely enjoys what she does. What you've been given is probably something she began to make for my uncle before you arrived and then finished for you instead, since you and he are of a size. She likely had Tegwyn's help. My niece does beautiful embroidery."

"It _is_ beautiful, but I can't accept something like that," Cromwell protested.

"Why not?" From the expression on her face, Tesni was clearly puzzled. "It was made to be a gift. You do realize that my sister-in-law is grateful that she still has a son, don't you?"

The colonel scrubbed a hand across his face. How was he supposed to explain that he didn't want anything from Anwen? From anyone, really? He was completely unaccustomed to receiving gifts, to being fussed over or looked after or on the receiving end of any of the sort of generosity that he had been shown since his arrival here a mere week ago. _Give me a job to do, then leave me alone and I'll get it done. That's all I need. Not this other stuff._

He tried again. "Tesni, I don't need anything from her. This is making me uncomfortable."

"Our customs must seem very strange to you, I'm sure. But no one means to cause you discomfort."

"I realize that. It's just... well, where I come from, most people just don't usually go out of their way for each other like that. Certainly not for me, or someone like me."

"You don't have friends who look after you and each other?" There was genuine concern in her eyes now.

"Of course. That is, I..." He shook his head. _Well, not many. Not for a while now, have you, Cromwell? And whose fault is that?_ "Friends will do that, certainly. But strangers? Not so much."

"Then we must seem doubly odd to you, for it is our tradition to look after strangers as well as friends. In this way, we may turn the former into the latter." Tesni smiled. "Regardless, the gift has been given. By our custom, attempting to give it back dishonors both the giver and the receiver. My advice would be to wear the tunic, perhaps for tomorrow's gather night. Then thank Anwen, and speak no more of it."

The colonel fidgeted, dropping his gaze to stare again at his feet. "I'm just not accustomed to this sort of thing, all right?"

She laid a hand gently on his arm, and he looked up to see again the familiar expression of mixed understanding and concern. "If you really are leaving soon, then you haven't much longer to be uncomfortable. And you will have something nice to remember us by, won't you?"

"I suppose. But really, I don't want anything else — Wait; that's not true. Give me something more I can do to help around here." It hadn't escaped Cromwell that everyone in Llanavon worked together, sharing the duties that kept the place functioning. "I'm used to being busy, and sitting around at the compass circle waiting for something to happen isn't enough. There have to be things I can do here when I'm not there."

Tesni grinned. "Very well. In fact, you can help right now, with dinner." She stood, pulling him along with her. "You _can_ cook, can't you?"

"I can."

"Good. Then we shall begin to solve your problem of not being busy enough."

And so it was that he began to be absorbed into the daily life of the Pridani, taking his place alongside his neighbors at the various tasks necessary for the smooth functioning of what was, in essence, a largely communal society. He also spent time more fully acclimating himself to the strange weapons in use here, with the help of Tesni and Dynawd. It was something to do, and he reasoned it couldn't hurt. Another two weeks went by, still with no sign of SG-1 or anyone else from the SGC, and the colonel began to worry. It seemed that his worst fears might be coming true: either Earth's stargate or its supporting systems had been damaged — whether beyond all function or just enough to require extensive repairs, who could say? — or possibly no one knew where to begin looking for him. _Or maybe they don't even suspect I survived at all. I know I didn't expect to; I suppose they might just assume I'm dead._

There was a certain depressing symmetry to the thought. He had made the same assumption with regard to Jack in Iraq, only to learn later that he'd been terribly, tragically mistaken. But beyond that, the similarity of their situations ended abruptly. As a result of that error, Jack had spent four months as a prisoner of war, tortured at the hands of his captors, returning battered and scarred from his experience. Cromwell reflected that his own situation was quite different. Far from being a prisoner, he lived freely in comfortable quarters, with every physical need met, and was surrounded by people who treated him with what seemed to be genuine liking and more respect than he felt he deserved. Carrying that thought in his mind and holding it up in contrast to what he knew Jack had gone through was its own form of torment, however, for a man who'd spent years waking in a cold sweat from dreams of boarding a helicopter, bleeding from his own wounds, and knowing that every beat of the rotors carried him farther from the friend he'd sworn never to abandon.


	15. Deep Cover

Twenty-one days after his arrival on Tir Awyr, the colonel was surprised to find himself sitting once again at a table in the shade of the patio shelter, listening as Cadogan addressed those assembled. Surprised, because this time he was part of a much smaller group, comprising men and women hand-picked by Nenniaw and the _cadlywydd_ himself to take part in an operation designed to further deny Bel the fruits of Pridanic labors. He hadn't known exactly what to expect when Dynawd had collected him that morning, asking only that Cromwell accompany him at the _cadlywydd's_ request.

When the briefing was over, Cromwell approached Cadogan. The older man was conferring quietly with Gerlad and Nenniaw, and the colonel waited off to one side, making it clear that he wanted a moment of the _cadlywydd'_ s time. Concluding his conversation with his aide and the commander of the Llanavoni rebels, Cadogan clasped arms with the two and sent them off. Nenniaw gave Cromwell a nod in passing.

Turning to the colonel, Cadogan nodded as well, a smile playing about his features. "You wished to see me?"

"I have a question, sir."

The _cadlywydd's_ eyebrows rose a fraction. "Formality now, is it? I told you, we really don't stand much on ceremony here, Frank."

In spite of himself, Cromwell felt a faint smile steal over his face. He shook his head. "You know, you're one of the very few around here who can say my name correctly. Almost everyone else mangles the vowel."

The other man chuckled. "It has a sound not found in Pridanic. I have rather more experience with other languages than most Pridani, and I'm used to speaking Tok'ra, which does use that particular sound."

The colonel still found himself mildly unsettled by the reminder that the man to whom he was speaking was only one of two conscious entities sharing a single body, despite the fact that he was becoming somewhat accustomed to dealing with the Tok'ra. He did, after all, spend eight hours of most days on guard at the stargate with a party that invariably included one of their operatives. The one thing he'd noticed about the _cadlywydd_ was that Cadogan, rather than the symbiote Sabar, did most of the talking, at least in his presence. It was quite different from how most of the other Tok'ra in his admittedly limited experience handled things; with them, he was as likely to find himself talking to the symbiote as to the host. Not that he'd spoken to them all that much.

Cromwell pulled his thoughts back to the matter at hand as Cadogan spoke again. "So, what was it you wanted to ask me about?" the _cadlywydd_ asked. "And why the sudden formality?"

In the colonel's mind, the two issues were intertwined. "Sir, the formality is because I seem to have been brought more fully under your command, at least for the moment. Where I come from, that calls for a certain level of... respect, decorum, formality; whatever you'd like to term it. The question on my mind is how exactly, or why, I was chosen for this. Don't get me wrong; I'm perfectly willing to take part. But I can't help wondering why me, when I'm still a stranger here and you have plenty of other qualified people. Also, I'd like to remind you that I do have a prior duty, one that I still expect to reassert itself at some point soon." I hope.

Cadogan eyed him with concern. "Does serving for the present among my people constitute a conflict with that, Frank?"

"Not as such. At least I don't think so. This is a situation for which I don't exactly have a direct precedent. But your people and mine fight the same enemy, so it isn't terribly different from other instances when I've been placed with groups outside of my normal... organization, if you will. Except that in those cases, I'd been sent there on the orders of my own superiors."

"If you have reservations..." Cadogan began.

Cromwell shook his head. "Not exactly. I'm just curious as to why you want me along."

The _cadlywydd_ nodded again. "I see. Well, for one thing, you were recommended by Nenniaw."

"By Nenniaw?"

"Don't be so surprised. He's gotten the impression that you'll be handy, and I agree. We're both aware that you've held a position of command before, and that means experience. You don't say much, but I'd be willing to bet that you've spent a lot of time in the field, and probably been involved covert operations." Cadogan held up a hand. "I don't need to really know any more than that. But I'm right, aren't I?"

Cromwell was floored. He'd said absolutely nothing about that, and as little as possible about his own past otherwise, to anyone he'd met on Tir Awyr. Except, now that he thought about it, he had admitted to Tesni that he was in fact the CO of a small team back home. She must have shared that information with her own superiors; by now, he was well aware that she was as fully a member of this rebel force as were Celyn, Dynawd or Nenniaw. But of his background in covert ops, he'd said not a word. "Sir, I have to ask how you came to that conclusion? The second one, I mean; I'm sure I know where you came by the first."

"Your reactions, when others have spoken of such things. I know that my people speak much more freely among themselves than you appear to be accustomed to" — _No kidding,_ thought the colonel, though he didn't interrupt Cadogan — "and while you neither have joined in nor would be expected to join those conversations, it doesn't take much more than watching your face to see that you understand exactly what is being discussed." When Cromwell would have protested, the _cadlywydd_ cut him off with a wave. "Oh, don't be concerned. No one who wasn't pretty deeply involved themselves would catch that; it isn't as if you give much away in your expression. But it's quite clear to me, and to Nenniaw, that you're one of us, at least in the manner I've mentioned."

Well, there wasn't really any point in denying it; not in this situation. "All right, you've pegged me on that, anyway. And I won't pretend I'm not glad to have something more to do than guard duty and whatever else I can scare up in my off hours." _Not to mention that the longer I'm around, the more this looks like it's going to remain my fight on a personal level. I could be here a while._

Cadogan grinned and nodded. "I thought as much. You don't strike me as a person much given to pacing" — _I don't? Then you still don't know me well._ — "but you've looked on the verge of it for at least a week now, according to Nenniaw."

Three days later, Cromwell had made two more trips through the stargate, this time in what he took to be a normal fashion. _As if a word like 'normal' even applies to something like that,_ he reflected as he stepped out into the compass circle on Tir Awyr. The eight-person team of which he'd been a part had traveled to one of the other worlds under Bel's control — a place called Arverenem, at least as near as he could tell given that he was dealing with a place-name in one language translated into another, neither of them his native tongue — where they had aided a local group in sabotage of one of the processing centers for naquadah ore. The colonel didn't know much about naquadah, other than what he'd been told by the Air Force: that it formed the basis for much of the technology used by the Goa'uld, including staff weapons — the _ma'tok_ with which he'd recently familiarized himself — and the stargates themselves. According to Cadogan, who had taken the time to bring him up to speed, Bel's small collection of worlds didn't have a large supply of the metal, and as a result, decreasing his ability to access and process even a portion of it was one way to help weaken his grip over the peoples he'd enslaved. While the operation in question could probably have been carried out by the locals alone, the fact was that Cadogan involved the Llanavoni team in part as training for future such missions. A bonus reaped from the operation was a small supply of naquadah for the rebels' own use, which was welcome.

Cromwell found that helping Cadogan and the rebels in this manner alleviated some of the discomfort he'd been feeling over his status as a guest, dependent upon the Pridani for food, clothing, shelter and the information necessary to his survival since he'd arrived. They'd taken him in and looked after his needs, going out of their way to make him welcome among the community. If he had any sort of expertise that they found useful and he could offer it without endangering his own people in any way, then he would gladly do so.

Once again, the _cadlywydd_ spent the next two days in Llanavon. Cromwell was beginning to get the impression that while the rebel group, and thus Cadogan as their high commander, maintained headquarters in Dinas Coedwyg, the _cadlywydd_ preferred on a personal level to spend as much of his time as possible in Llanavon. The colonel supposed it made sense; Llanavon was slightly closer to the stargate than Dinas Coedwyg, and Cadogan did have family here.

On the second night, Cromwell found himself sharing a table with the _cadlywydd_ after dinner, as the villagers milled about in yet another of their informal evening entertainment sessions. The addition of Tesni, Idris and Anwen rounded out their group. Cadogan and Tesni sat across from each other, a wooden game board between them, with small carven figures set up in a pattern on the board's gridded surface. The game was apparently called _brandhu_ or "black crows" and Cromwell and the others watched as Tesni and her uncle played. Idris and Anwen offered suggestions, while the colonel just tried his best to figure out how the game was played. Upon conclusion of the first game — won by Cadogan — the others took turns playing. Each game took not all that long to play, and by the time a little over an hour had passed, Cromwell thought he had figured out how it worked. He was also the only person who hadn't yet taken a turn, so when Tesni invited him to play, he decided to give it a try. As before, the others offered suggestions, with Cadogan taking it on himself to coach the colonel. To Cromwell's surprise, he won, though Tesni immediately challenged him again, sticking out her tongue at her uncle in mock indignation. "Of course he won; he had you helping him, and you bested me earlier."

Cadogan only laughed. " _Fy nith_ , next time don't use the same strategy twice in a row." He turned to the colonel. "Have you yet seen our game called _gwyddbwyll_? It's similar, but more involved. I think you'd enjoy it."

 _Gwyddbwyll? 'Woods sense'?_ Cromwell shook his head. "I'm afraid I haven't." He looked again at the _brandhu_ board, which reminded him for all the world of a grossly simplified chess set, with fewer pieces. He'd learned to play chess as a boy, his grandfather teaching him as he'd taught his father before him, and had continued to play well into adulthood. It was one of the things he and Jack often used to do together on downtime.

It had been years since he'd played chess.

Cadogan was speaking again. "I'll make some time to show you, one of these days. Unless Tesni would like to teach you?" He turned to his niece, who was setting up the _brandhu_ pieces again. "You still have the set I gave you, I'm sure?"

"You know I do; we played at midsummer. You bested me then, too. Twice."

The _cadlywydd_ laughed. "So I did." He grinned at Cromwell. "I'll teach you, when we both have adequate free time."

The colonel wasn't sure what to make of the offer. "You're assuming I'll still be here for a while yet."

Cadogan shrugged. "If you are, then I'll enjoy teaching you to play. Fair enough?"

"All right." He accepted, bemused by the idea that someone who had as much on his plate as the _cadlywydd_ surely must would take an interest in teaching a stranger to play a game. Still, he was curious to learn, and he found Cadogan to be quite personable. If he were going to be stuck here for an extended period, he supposed that cultivating a friendship with the man wasn't the worst way to spend his time. It had been a while since he'd bothered to do that with anyone, but since arriving on Tir Awyr, the colonel had begun to learn that it took more effort to rebuff the friendly overtures of the Pridani than it did to just go with the flow.

He played two more games of _brandhu_ that evening, losing to Tesni — though just barely — because he insisted on playing solo, and then going on to win against Idris, this time with Tesni's help, as Cadogan went off to confer briefly with the ever-present Gerlad. Idris and Anwen drifted off shortly afterward, in the company of another couple with whom they were friends, and Cadogan was ensconced with Nenniaw and Dynawd several tables away. Cromwell helped Tesni put away the game board and pieces, then divided the ale left in the pitcher on the table between both of their mugs. "You know, it's been years since I played a game like that, but I enjoyed it," he told her.

"I'm glad to hear that, Frehnk," she replied. He winced and dropped his gaze as she once again mangled the vowel in his name. Cadogan was right: Pridanic didn't seem to have the exact sound necessary, but the colonel was getting tired of the myriad ways people here found to mispronounce one simple monosyllable. _Not their fault,_ he reminded himself for the hundredth time. He didn't quite know why it bothered him so, save for the fact that he was effectively stranded, for the moment anyway, in an unfamiliar place and it would have been surprising if there weren't something that bothered him. That his mind had apparently decided to fixate on a single inconsequential detail bothered him even more than the detail itself, now that he thought about it.

He looked up to see Tesni watching him with a look of concern. "Is everything all right?" she asked.

"Everything's fine, Tesni." He shook his head. "I was just thinking."

She smiled. "Again? What about, this time?"

"Oh, nothing much. Language, of all things."

"Ah." She sipped from her mug. "You know, I was thinking about that, too. You've been here not quite a month, yet you're speaking our language with almost no problem. I can't remember the last time you asked me to explain a word or expression to you."

She was right, he realized. When he'd first arrived, Pridanic had sounded to him like something just beyond his understanding, but after several hours of working through the basics, first with Nenniaw and then with Tesni, his brain had begun to fit the pieces together so that Pridanic sounded less alien to his ears. Somewhere in the next few days, something had suddenly shifted in his mind that caused most of the rest of the language to fall into place for him. Oh, he still had to work at it, but he found that if he forced himself to think in Pridanic, the way his _naina_ had so often urged him to think in Welsh when he was using it, the language came much more easily to him. He'd used the same tactic in high school German, and when the Air Force needed him to learn to converse in languages like Spanish and Arabic. "This isn't the first time I've had to learn to get by in another language for a while," he said. "Yours is close to one I learned when I was very young."

"The one you first spoke with me when you came here isn't your normal tongue?"

"Not exactly, but I did learn it as a child and I used it a lot growing up, which helps. I never forgot it, which is good, considering where I am now." He gestured around. "I don't know that I'd have managed if not for that."

Tesni looked at him curiously, a smile playing about her lips. "How many languages do you speak?"

"Three, mainly, now that I've had to learn yours. And I can manage to a certain extent in two or three others, but I run out of things to say in them a lot faster, because I didn't learn them in-depth. Why?"

"Are there many languages on your world?" she asked.

"A great many. It isn't like that here, is it?"

She shook her head. "Here we have only ourselves and the Albannu, so there are only the two languages. I can speak a little of theirs, and I understand Tok'ra well enough, though I can't speak it well at all. I have trouble with some of the sounds. Sabar says I don't practice enough, and the _cadlywydd_ agrees."

Cromwell nodded. "Probably true. I've noticed you have trouble with my name, and so does almost everyone else here, except for a few people who I'm going to guess probably do speak Tok'ra well. Your uncle tells me the vowel in it is used in Tok'ra but not in Pridanic."

"I'm sorry if it bothers you."

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. There's no real reason for it to bother me, anyway."

"It must be interesting to live on a world with many different languages." Tesni gave him another smile. "When are you going to tell me more about your world, anyway?"

The colonel shrugged. "There really isn't much to tell you, and I'd actually prefer not to be asked that a lot." At her frown, he hurriedly amended, "I don't mean you, specifically. You haven't done anything wrong. I guess what I'm saying is that for right now, I have reasons for not wanting to talk about it much. I'm not supposed to be here, and I'm not really sure how the people back home would want me to handle that, under the circumstances. I'm actually hoping that someone will come for me soon, and then maybe I can tell you more before I go. Maybe they'll even decide to visit here again, and if I'm lucky I can come along." After all, part of Earth's Stargate program did involve making alliances with people from other worlds, according to the information he'd been given, and after getting this far in and actually spending time off-world, Cromwell was beginning to think it might be worth it to request reassignment to the program itself, once he got home. They had just lost some personnel, obviously, so it wasn't unreasonable to think they might want to bring in a few more, and hell, he already had the clearance. "But for right now, I'm on my own and while most people here in Llanavon are aware that I'm from someplace very far away, they don't all know exactly how I got here, do they?"

"Some do, and some don't. And most who do think you're from one of our sister worlds, the same as Morcant. There are a few Pridanic communities on one or two, and that's probably where they think you're from. Everyone who actually knows about your accidental trip is under the _cadlywydd's_ orders, so if you explain to him that you want your secret kept, he can see to it that it is. Given our situation, we're very good at secrecy, you know."

Cromwell felt a profound relief. "Then I think it would be best if I could keep a low profile and blend in that way. Do you think my Pridanic is good enough for that?"

She nodded, smiling. "You actually speak it well, and without much of an accent, except on a few sounds. And there are ways to explain that away. But your name confuses people, so you'll need a name in our language and tradition if you really do want to blend in."

 _Well, that would solve the problem everyone's been having_. It wasn't entirely a novel concept, either; he'd taken an assumed name on one or two other occasions, for the sake of missions that sent him to places where the United States military did not officially have people. _If this doesn't fall under that category, I don't know what in hell does._

"I suppose I will." He chuckled, realizing he had no clue where to start. "Of course, I'm completely unfamiliar with how you choose names, or what's traditional for you. Help me out here?"

"Help you choose a common name, you mean?"

"That's what I mean. Give me a suggestion or two, anyway."

Tesni fixed him with an appraising look. He could nearly see the wheels going around in her mind. Finally, she nodded. "You strike me as a Neirin."

"'Neirin', is it? And that's a common name among your people?"

"Common enough, I think. There isn't anyone else in Llanavon with it at present, but I know of one or two other men by that name, in Dinas Coedwyg and Bren Argoed."

"Does it mean anything?" The last thing he wanted was to be saddled with a name that held some awkward meaning, in a culture where names might be more likely to carry understood meanings than in his own.

She shook her head, smiling again. "Not really. Not all names really have present-day meanings, you know. Some may have had them, back when my people first came here, but over time they've just become names rather than words. I couldn't tell you what half of them ever meant, not even my own. Is it different with your people?"

That was a relief. "It's exactly the same way among my people. I'm sure my name probably meant something at some point, but not by the time my parents gave it to me." He took a sip of ale, contemplating her suggestion. "All right, I can use Neirin. At least it's pronounceable."

"You'll need a byname, too. A girl or woman is formally identified as the daughter of her mother through her father, while for men and boys it's the opposite. Informally, we simply identify ourselves as the child of our same-gender parent. What are your parents' given names?"

"My father was named Owen, and my mother's name was Lois." As far as he knew, his grandparents had given his father a solidly Welsh name, which should help a little.

"Owen sounds very much like 'Owein', in our tongue," Tesni said. "I've never heard the name 'Lois" but it sounds a little bit like Lona, so perhaps you could substitute that instead? That would make you formally Neirin ab Owein trwy Lona, and informally just Neirin ab Owein. Do you like it?"

 _Neirin, son of Owein, by Lona._ He wondered fleetingly what the late Owen and Lois Cromwell would have thought. "It works."


	16. On Familiar Ground

_There is a destiny that makes us brothers:  
None goes his way alone:  
All that we send into the lives of others  
Comes back onto our own._

                           — Edwin Markham

 

The Goa'uld Bel ruled five worlds. That much Cromwell knew, and the rest was guesswork, as the historian in him tried to piece together how the humans of Bel's domain had come to be there and from where, precisely, even as he took part in his own small way in an uprising designed to one day free them. It was slow going, but for as long as he found himself among them, he took satisfaction in the thought that he was both doing something useful and ultimately striking a blow against at least one member of the species who had abused and threatened humans since the dawn of their history.

Bel had populated five worlds with various Celtic peoples drawn from mainland Europe and what Cromwell knew as the British Isles, most likely over a couple centuries' span sometime around two millennia ago, intending that they serve him as slaves, mining what naquadah these worlds possessed, and providing him with other resources as well. Besides the Pridani of Tir Awyr, Cromwell had occasionally encountered Albannu. He had also met what he took to be descendants of Gaulish Celtic tribes on Arverenem, of Gaels including another subset of the Albannu on Emhain, and of Iberian Celts like the Gallaeci, Cantabri and Lusitani among a group from Galla. Yes, he was only guessing, but some of the names these individuals used for their own peoples provided clues. A fifth world existed, Bohan, but he had yet to visit it or, as far as he was aware, meet anyone from there.

The peoples of these five worlds were the "allies" to whom Tesni had referred on that day in Dinas Coedwyg when he'd first met Cadogan. The rebellion led by the _cadlywydd_ and his Tok'ra symbiote Sabar, and aided by Sabar's Tok'ra colleagues included groups on all of Bel's worlds. The colonel also got the distinct impression that Sabar and his Tok'ra friends were somehow out of the mainstream of Tok'ra culture. Not that he understood much of anything about the Tok'ra anyway, but his gut insisted this was the case, based on he knew not what. _Call it raw instinct._ He spent precious little time interacting directly with the Tok'ra themselves, not even Sabar, who tended to stay in the background whenever Cromwell and Cadogan spoke.

It had taken some time for Cromwell to piece all of this information together, but he'd managed it. By now, he had served for nearly eight months in the rebel movement, most of that time in command of his own small team of Pridani from Llanavon, Bren Argoed and Dinas Coedwyg. The complement of personnel based in Llanavon had swelled by nearly half in Cromwell's time there, beginning not long after the day Bel's Jaffa had come through the stargate and attempted to kidnap several village youth and children. The events of that day had only succeeded in moving up Cadogan's timetable slightly, for the Pridani had already been poised on the cusp of taking their rebellion to the next level and actively denying Bel access to the planet's resources, meager though they were.

With Llanavon being the closest settlement to the stargate, it was the logical place to concentrate many of those actively involved in the rebel movement — the _Am Rhyddid*_ — and that influx had naturally led to an increased need for seasoned officers to lead them. Cromwell had become involved in the fight himself almost by default, but he had never expected to be on Tir Awyr long enough to command any portion of its participants. He had expected a search party from Earth to turn up any day looking for him. When first days, then weeks, and eventually over two months went by with no sign that anyone from his home world sought him, the colonel had become anxious, worried about the fate of those who had been in the Gate Room and the control booth when he had at last released his grip on Jack O'Neill's harness and given himself up to the pull of the gravity well emanating from the wormhole whose event horizon roiled within the stargate below. Had they survived the blast?

Jack had been right there, suspended along with him over that swirling maw. Cromwell knew that Jack must have been successful in arming the bomb, something he himself had failed to do before a gravity wave had pulled him away from the device and drawn both men closer to the stargate. Surely the bomb's detonation was responsible for the wormhole's disengagement from the black hole and subsequent connection here to Tir Awyr, spitting Cromwell out essentially into the midst of someone else's war against the same species who threatened Earth.

Jack had insisted that Cromwell set the explosive device's timer for twenty seconds; less than the amount of time it would take a man to climb beyond the range of the resulting explosion, especially against the enormous pull of the gravity field. "We won't make it out," Cromwell remembered warning his friend. Well, he himself _had_ made it out, he reflected, though in a way he would never even remotely have guessed possible before the fact. But had Jack? Up in the control booth had been that bright young captain – Carter, that was her name – with a sergeant whose name escaped him at the moment but who certainly seemed capable enough, and Teal'c, the massive Jaffa who, along with Carter, served on Jack's team. With any luck, they had managed to pull Jack to safety in the time between his arming of the device and its detonation. Cromwell just wished he could be certain. But as time passed with no arrival of visitors from Earth, he'd begun to despair of ever finding out.

There had been plenty to keep him occupied, however. Over the course of those initial two months of waiting, it hadn't taken more than four missions, during which they took further steps to deny Bel the fruits of Celtic labors, before the _cadlywydd_ himself approached Cromwell one day at the conclusion of yet another operation, and asked politely for a moment of his time. As if he would deny the highest-ranking officer in the entire _Am Rhyddid_ a moment. The military discipline ingrained in him over nearly a quarter-century of service wouldn't have permitted it, even had he wished to decline. Hell, after the briefing when his team accepted assignment as backup for the SGC, he'd given General West — whom he loathed — that much out of duty alone when West had taken him aside to query him on his familiarity with Jack O'Neill. No, the Celts were nowhere near as formal or as stringently disciplined as the U.S. Air Force might be, but it hardly mattered; Cromwell still hewed to the standard to which he'd committed himself as a young man. Moreover, he respected Cadogan on a personal level. Liked him, even. And so he had found himself in the _cadlywydd_ 's office, being offered a welcome cup of tea to wash the taste of battle from his mouth, and presented with a proposition that gave him pause.

With the influx of personnel to Llanavon, Dinas Coedwyg and the rest of the territory surrounding the stargate, and to active duty in the rebel forces in general, Cadogan found himself in need of experienced officers to take charge of the teams being formed. Would he, Neirin ab Owein – by now, Cromwell went exclusively by the Pridanic name he'd taken, even in conversation with those who knew and could pronounce his own – would he be willing to lead such a team himself? Oh, yes, the _cadlywydd_ assured him, he was well aware that Neirin would most likely be among them only temporarily, until such time as his compatriots from his homeworld came to find him, but could he see his way clear to help out until then? And yes, of course, his duty to his own world would take precedence such that he would be immediately released to resume it when that time came – but still, for right now, the _Am Rhyddid_ needed people who understood how to train others and to lead them, and it didn't take much observation to see that Neirin possessed that understanding and ability, regardless of the fact that his prior experience was in another tradition altogether. Form mattered little, especially in light of the present need. So would he consent to take command of one of the small units currently being formed?

To call the request unexpected would have been a gross understatement. Cromwell found himself surprised, bemused, conflicted... and thoroughly curious as to what possessed Cadogan to consider him for such a position when he was an outsider, a stranger still finding his own feet among them while expecting at any time to leave once more.

"Why me?" he asked, echoing the question he'd asked when the _cadlywydd_ had chosen him for that first mission to Arverenem. "Surely you can't have such a shortage of qualified individuals from among your own people that you would turn instead to the foreigner you've picked up?"

Cadogan only grinned. "Neirin, you've been one of us for some time now. You live among us and speak our language. You've adopted a name in our tradition. We share the same enemy in the Goa'uld. On the day we first met, you fought alongside Nenniaw, Tesni and others, and acquitted yourself well. You've continued to do so since then, and I know you've already served in the capacity I am asking of you, albeit on your own world. We do have a shortage of qualified people, but even if that shortage were less severe than it is, I would still be asking you to step up, because I know you can do the job and do it well. Tesni has said as much, as has Nenniaw, not to mention that I have watched you myself. If it makes your decision easier, consider this a personal favor to me. Will you help?"

In the end, the colonel agreed, largely out of respect and his genuine liking for Cadogan. The _cadlywydd_ was a good leader, and a fair-minded, generous man who had gone out of his way on a personal level to help ease his transition to life among the Pridani for however long he was to remain. If for whatever reason Cadogan felt that Cromwell could be of use beyond what he was already doing, then he would help, and do so willingly, despite any private doubts he might harbor about his right to take the position offered.

He had been placed in command of a team of operatives, twelve altogether, though the system by which the Pridani rotated people between military duties and other obligations meant that at any given time, only eight were present. Cromwell worked with them much as he had with his team on Earth, which had been of a similar size. They were tasked with a variety of objectives, all aimed at loosening Bel's grip on the people and resources of Tir Awyr and the other four Celtic worlds. From interfering with the collection of naquadah ore extracted from the mines and siphoning a percentage of it off for the rebellion's own use, to sabotaging technological installations and occasionally spaceships, the rebels were busy, and Cromwell and his men found themselves in the thick of things. As often as not, Cadogan himself was a part of whatever operation was in progress, risking his own life and that of his symbiote alongside their subordinates. The longer Cromwell served with Cadogan, the more he came to respect the _cadlywydd_ , not only as a commander but also as a person.

For his part, Cadogan exhibited a great deal of respect for the solitary foreigner he'd drawn into his officer corps. In military matters, he made it clear that he heartily approved of the way that Cromwell handled his team; even going so far on occasion as to have him advise other, less experienced team leaders. On a personal level, both men moved in much the same social circle — to the extent that Cromwell did so at all — due in part to Cadogan's relation to Tesni and the colonel's friendship with her. Cromwell's habitual reserve often stood in sharp contrast to the Pridanic cultural tendency toward gregariousness, but Cadogan, like his niece, found ways to draw him out and include him in the social life of the community. Their efforts were generally subtle, but over time the net result was that the colonel found himself growing more comfortable with the people among whom he presently made his home.

Cromwell genuinely enjoyed Cadogan's company. The _cadlywydd_ had a relaxed manner, and while he took care never to pry into the colonel's past, he was easy to talk to. True to his word, not long after first mentioning _gwyddbwyll_ , he introduced Cromwell to the game. It was another strategy game, similar to chess yet played in a very different configuration, involving a single king piece with a number of defensive pieces, all under the control of one player, and double that number of attackers under control of the other. The board was a seven-by-seven square grid, though pieces moved on the intersection points of the lines, rather than within the squares themselves.

The game's name in Pridanic was very nearly the same word that in modern Welsh referred to chess itself, a fact that caused Cromwell to wonder exactly what, if any, connection might exist between the two. He knew that chess had originated in India, spreading to Europe by way of Persia, but that occurred long after the timeframe in which he suspected the Pridani of having been relocated from Earth to Tir Awyr. Most likely, on Earth the earlier game must have been supplanted by the eastern import that later took on its name. Regardless, he reflected, human culture was rife with such games, especially among societies with any sort of martial bent, and the Britannic tribes were no exception.

Once Cadogan had acquainted him with the game, the two took to playing on something of a regular basis. Tesni, Idris and Ris also took their turns as Cromwell's opponent and even Anwen and Tegwyn played him on occasion, but the time he spent with the _cadlywydd_ , bonding across the game board with little need for detailed personal discussion, reminded him in some ways of playing chess with Jack O'Neill, on downtime back in the days when they'd served in the same unit. The comparison was bittersweet: on the one hand, it often stirred up in him a mixture of regret and concern which grew with every week that passed with no contact from Earth. On the other, he found himself forging, without truly having meant to, a genuine friendship of the type he hadn't experienced since those days with Jack.

After Iraq, Cromwell had largely shut himself away from most real connection with others, from the men in his unit to his wife. It had cost him a few friendships and his marriage — well, technically, they'd never divorced but he'd hoped for years that for her own sake, Lisa would move on, though he felt obligated to support her financially until she did. It wasn't her fault that he'd made a shambles of his life and the life of a friend. He hadn't seen or spoken to her since shortly after discovering Jack's imprisonment, however. There'd been problems between them even before the Gulf; what occurred there had been, he felt, merely the final straw as he came out of the experience convinced he had nothing to offer her as a husband, just as he had nothing to offer anyone as a friend. Who needed a friend or a husband whose greatest talent lay in failing people?

He'd vowed never to repeat that failure, with the result that the team of which he'd taken command on his promotion to lieutenant colonel shortly after the Gulf had remained intact for eight years without losing a single man in the field, along the way to racking up a record of successful missions that went largely unrivaled. Cromwell had been promoted again just over halfway through that time, though a spate of reshuffling necessitated by yet another not-quite war conspired to effectively keep him in command of essentially the same complement of men even after pinning on the silver eagle. Through that time, however, he'd avoided forming any bond of a personal nature with either the men under his command or other officers among whom he served. He trusted his men and his fellow commanders, and they trusted him for his ability, though God knew why, but any overtures of real friendship went unanswered, and he made none himself. He'd garnered a reputation over those eight years as a tough, no-nonsense CO, fair but something of a hard-ass, and a decided loner. Nevertheless, he'd had respect. That was more than enough, he decided; in fact, in the private, tightly-guarded inner recesses of his mind, he felt even that to be undeserved.

Now, after being offered the one thing he'd wanted as strongly as he'd despaired of ever getting it — the chance to redeem himself with Jack — and having somehow managed to do so, he was stranded as a direct result on an alien world. Not only that, but he was stranded among a people who seemed to regard the tendency to hold oneself apart as a distinct aberration. On his arrival here, his guard had been down to a degree, and he'd let Tesni slip inside the boundaries he so carefully set under normal conditions. Of course, to have formed a friendship with her, when she was initially the only person with whom he could communicate fully, was perhaps not so surprising. In fact, it had been something of a necessity. The fact that she asked nothing of him and seemed content to remain for the most part ignorant of the details of his past and his interior life made her a lot easier to talk to. Their friendship existed on Cromwell's own terms, a fact for which he was profoundly grateful.

Cadogan was another story altogether. In large part, the colonel's relationship with the _cadlywydd_ had its basis in their shared experiences. Both men were command officers, though Cadogan's responsibilities were clearly far greater than Cromwell's had ever been. Both had long experience in the field, if under different conditions. Cromwell wasn't sure how many years Cadogan had spent as an officer before reaching his current position, but the man didn't appear to be more than five years his senior — surely less than ten — so it couldn't be much longer than his own service. In any case, the matter of the _cadlywydd_ 's also being host to the Tok'ra Sabar obviously had a bearing on things, though Cromwell admitted privately that he was still rather fuzzy on how the whole relationship of symbiote to host, and its relative effects on rank and role even worked. Regardless, the subject seemed never to come up in their conversations and it wasn't really any of his business, the colonel reminded himself. Regardless of the personal friendship that Cadogan insisted on showing him, at the end of the day, the man was still his commanding officer — for now, anyway — and Cromwell would respect his privacy just as the _cadlywydd_ was careful to respect his.

For Cadogan never sought to know more about Cromwell's past than he'd volunteered; never asked inconvenient questions about his origins or his homeworld, beyond that initial conversation after the Jaffa attack on his second day among the Pridani. It was as if, upon discovering the colonel's reluctance to discuss the matter, the _cadlywydd_ had decided that it was of no real importance. It seemed that to Cadogan, the important thing about Cromwell was his willingness and ability to help the rebel organization for as long as he was present. That, and finding ways to make him comfortable in what was, after all, an unfamiliar culture. The colonel reflected that Cadogan appeared to have made that his own personal mission, and while the knowledge might have made him vastly uncomfortable less than a year ago, since the events in Cheyenne Mountain, something within him had shaken loose to the extent that he found himself once more able to respond to friendly overtures in a way he'd so long avoided doing.

Through the chilly, snowy winter, Cadogan had spent somewhat more time in Dinas Coedwyg than in Llanavon, and as one of his team leaders, Cromwell had found himself called upon to spend a fair amount of time there himself, along with several of his fellow officers, intent upon training and organizing those under their command, and discussing options for action as opportunity arose. This didn't mean, of course, that he was absent from the smaller village constantly; in fact, he still spent the bulk of his time there, including nearly all of his downtime, despite the hassle of traveling in wintry weather.

Cadogan likewise spent as much of his own free time, little as it sometimes was, in Llanavon himself. He generally stayed with Idris and Anwen, whose dwelling was fairly spacious and boasted extra sleeping rooms, two of which the _cadlywydd_ and Gerlad, his aide, made their home when they were present. The large, two-story house seemed to be something of a family seat, and it was there that Cadogan's kin — Idris and Anwen, along with Ris, Tegwyn, Tesni, and in some extended kinship configuration the colonel didn't quite grasp, Nenniaw and his brother Dynawd, with their wives and children — tended to gather regularly for family meals and to interact. They made sure to include Cromwell too, as though he were something of an honorary family member due to both Tesni and Cadogan having taken responsibility for him on his arrival in the community. At first he was uncomfortable with this status, feeling like an intruder. However, neither Tesni nor her uncle would hear of his excluding himself, and over time he came to accept and eventually enjoy having a place among them, although he still found himself mildly bemused by the fact.

It was on one such occasion, in late winter, that he found himself yet again facing Cadogan across the _gwyddbwyll_ board in the house's small study where the _cadlywydd_ often retreated for privacy when the bustle and hubbub of a house full of kinfolk proved overwhelming. Cromwell was once again mentally comparing the game to his beloved chess, and on a whim, began to describe it. Cadogan listened with interest, and before long offered a suggestion. "I would like to try this 'chess', Neirin. If you would talk to one of our local artisans, perhaps even to Ris, who carves wood, or to Dynawd's wife Glenys, who is a skilled worker in ceramics, it occurs to me that it shouldn't be difficult to construct the board and the playing-pieces. Then you can teach me, as I've taught you to play _gwyddbwyll_."

The thought had appeal. Ten minutes later, the colonel found himself seated at the dining table with Ris and Glenys, flanked by Cadogan and Tesni and surrounded by various and sundry other members of the _cadlywydd_ 's extended family, describing the game he'd learned as a boy and played regularly until roughly nine years ago. He was no artist, but armed with a sheet of paper, a quill and a bottle of ink, he was able to sketch a rough idea of a set of simplified chessmen, explaining what the figures were intended to represent. Ris and Glenys asked questions, clarifying his descriptions, and in the end, assured him that they could create what he was asking for.

And so it was that a month later, on what Cromwell was informed was the festival of the spring equinox, a shallow wooden box, carefully wrought, was brought to the table after dinner had been cleared away, and ceremoniously set between the _cadlywydd_ and himself. Its top was a familiar grid done in contrasting lighter and darker wooden squares, measuring eight-squares-by-eight rather than seven-by-seven as was appropriate for _gwyddbwyll_. Two drawers in the sides slid out, as on Cadogan's _gwyddbwyll_ set, and proved to hold ceramic chessmen, nestled in a cushioning of lambswool for protection. The pieces were elegant in their simplicity, bearing only faint resemblance to the intricately shaped ones belonging to Cromwell's grandfather and father, but their form and function were clear, from king to pawn. One set was glazed in a milky white; the other, a deep charcoal gray.

The colonel was momentarily speechless. He hadn't been quite sure what to expect when he'd first given his description and the crude sketch that accompanied it, though now it dawned on him that he ought not to be surprised. A great many everyday items used by the Pridani were beautifully made, and clearly that same skill had gone into this.

He glanced over at Cadogan, who was nodding and smiling appreciatively as he examined the white king, and then to Ris and Glenys, who were watching _him_ , apparently waiting for some comment as to their success in replicating what he had described. He blinked and shook his head, reaching out to pick up the black king. It had a comfortable heft, and its glaze reflected the glow of the room's oil lamps — for it was already past sunset — with a dark sheen, as though trapping some of the light in layers. "This is… Well, it's impressive," he said. "You've done a beautiful job."

"Is everything correct?" asked Glenys.

"It's perfect."

Cromwell expected the chess set to take up residence in Cadogan's study, as it was the _cadlywydd_ who had requested that it be made. Cadogan wouldn't hear of it, insisting instead that Cromwell keep it in his cottage. "Neirin, there's every chance that others will want to learn, too, when I'm not here. I'd hate for you to have to keep coming over to retrieve it. This set belongs to us both, I think, though surely more can be made." At this, Ris and Glenys nodded, smiling. The _cadlywydd_ continued, "Nevertheless, it is clearly your game. For tonight, though, why not set it up right here and give me my first lesson?"

So Cromwell returned the favor Cadogan had done for him, and taught him to play a favorite game. In the days and weeks that followed, he also found himself teaching Tesni, Ris, and most of the rest of the _cadlywydd_ 's family. As winter moved into spring, the colonel reflected that while he still held out hope that at some point soon he would in fact see Earth again, the people among whom he of necessity made his current home had managed to make his exile comfortable. Familiar, even, given that he had a job to do that wasn't terribly different at its core from what he'd done for years already. And now they'd gone to great lengths to bring an element of his former life into his present circumstances. Once again, he found himself moved by their hospitality.

Not that he didn't still want to go home. He wondered even now whether the reason for his not having been rescued were due to damage to Earth's stargate, to the base itself, or merely a matter of no one's suspecting him to have survived. Alternatively, did they not know what world the gate had connected to, after disconnecting from the black hole? He had no more answers to these questions now than he'd had eight months ago. He was determined to find out, when and if the opportunity presented itself. He would find his own way to do it, however.

For some instinct still prevented him from divulging the identity of his world. One man can keep a secret more effectively than two or three, and the colonel still had reservations about what could happen were it to be known that Earth had recently had trouble with its gate and might therefore be less capable of defending itself against an enemy incursion. When he and his Special Ops team had taken on the job of providing, along with a select few others, Earth's secondary line of defense should things go awry in Cheyenne Mountain, it had been made quite clear to him by General West at the Pentagon that the potential for disaster was enormous. If whatever had occurred within the SGC after he'd fallen had left the stargate functional but the planet more vulnerable, he had no way of knowing. The last thing he was going to do, if he could help it, was increase in any way the odds in favor of a threat to his homeworld, even if that meant living out the rest of his life elsewhere.

Obviously, he knew that Cadogan, Sabar, and the Pridani represented no threat to Earth; indeed, because of his involvement in their own fight against Bel, they would quite likely prove willing allies. However, he remained certain that the chance of the Tok'ra Sabar actually being able to identify and locate Earth from among the thousands of worlds known to have stargates was low, even with knowledge of the symbol that Cromwell knew to be associated with his world. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack. After all, if the address for Earth were common knowledge, he suspected there would have been a lot more contact initiated from offworld, once the Stargate had been unearthed and made functional. The very fact that this had not — so far as he was aware — occurred indicated that Earth was long forgotten, except by the Goa'uld themselves, who considered it a target after its inhabitants had managed to kill one of their number and defeat an invasion force belonging to another.

Furthermore, Cadogan and Sabar almost certainly had to be on Bel's "Most Wanted" list, and if by some chance they were to be captured, Cromwell knew that he didn't want a Goa'uld to gain access to any information regarding Earth, even second-hand. Not that his own presence among the _cadlywydd_ 's forces was risk-free, but Cromwell figured he was low-profile enough to avoid being specifically a target for capture, especially since taking a Pridanic identity. He didn't know much about Goa'uld psychology, but he knew enough to figure that that unlike, say, the Iraqis, they weren't given to taking numerous prisoners of war. If Bel's people got the chance to either capture or kill him, he was pretty sure they'd just shoot him and be done with it. If for some reason they did capture him, he knew enough ways to remove himself from either captivity or the picture, and would take action accordingly. But the Goa'uld lord and his minions would likely take far more precautions with the leader of the entire Celtic rebellion than they would with one lowly team leader, and therefore it was best if Cadogan simply knew nothing of Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Am Rhyddid_ = in Pridanic, as in Welsh, this means "For Freedom" ( _am_ "for, to favor, to want" + _rhyddid_ "freedom, liberty") and refers to the movement as a whole, primarily the human component but also includes the Tok'ra who are involved. As a related example, the Albannu on Tir Awyr and Emhain who are involved in this same movement call it _Air Sgàth Saorsa_ (literally "for the sake of freedom") or _Nar Fuasglaidh_ (literally "in our freeing"). See what happens when you let language and history geeks write _Stargate_ fanfic? LOL


	17. A Waiting Game, Redux

_All human wisdom is summed up in two words - wait and hope._ — Alexandre Dumas, père

 

General Hammond gathered his notes from SG-1's debriefing and tucked them into a folder before standing and draining the lukewarm remnants of coffee in his cup. He carried the folder with him into his office to lay it on a corner of his desk as he settled into his chair. O'Neill's impatience had been palpable throughout the meeting, and Hammond completely sympathized. After all that had happened, to be suddenly forced to wait on account of bad weather had to be frustrating, and Jack O'Neill was never the type to take frustration well. The general found himself almost as anxious as his 2IC for the storms on P2A-870 to let up so that SG-1 could get on with the search for Colonel Cromwell. Losing people in the line of duty was an unavoidable fact of military life, but for the moment, Cromwell's status was "missing in action" and Hammond sincerely hoped he would be found alive and returned safely to Earth. The sooner, the better for all concerned.

Over the months since Hammond had first learned of the decision taken by the Pentagon to place three Special Ops teams on standby in case of a foothold situation, and of the identity of the commanding officers of each team, he'd never once considered asking to have Cromwell and his men reassigned. For one thing, Cromwell didn't deserve that sort of negative reflection on his record. From all reports, the man was extremely good at what he did; likewise the men in his command. For another, as of his first briefing on the Stargate Project, Cromwell would have been made aware — if he hadn't been already — of O'Neill's presence at and position in the command structure of the SGC. Some inner sense prompted the general to consider that at the very least, affording him the potential opportunity to balance the scales with regard to O'Neill would be kinder than having him removed from this assignment. Of course, it was to be fervently hoped that there would be no need ever to use the external teams at all, but if a crisis arose, the possibility of having someone as capable as Cromwell leading the reinforcements might not be a bad thing. O'Neill might have his issues with the man, but Hammond had faith that should his 2IC ever be in a situation where he was forced to deal with his former teammate, he would manage to do so appropriately.

But that didn't mean he was going to ruffle O'Neill's feathers ahead of time by letting him know that Cromwell was assigned as part of their backup plan. He'd kept the information to himself for months, hoping it would never become an issue. By the time he became aware it might be about to be one, he'd been whisked away aboard a jet for a face to face meeting with his commander in chief, leaving events to play out however they might in his absence.

On returning to the SGC after his unplanned trip to Washington for an all-night session with the President and the Joint Chiefs, Hammond had found the two men face-to-face in the Control Room. Indeed it was Cromwell in command of the strike team. A little grayer, perhaps, but there was no mistaking that stocky build and piercing gaze. Drawing closer, the general noted that something in those eyes was different now. The bleak despair visible across a steakhouse table over three years earlier was gone, replaced by a grim determination. This was truly a man on a mission, Hammond realized; one that went far beyond anything the Pentagon had sent him here to do. _God help him._ The general meant that thought as sincerely as he'd ever meant anything in his life.

Brazening his way through the situation, he'd addressed Cromwell as though the two had never met, the Special Ops colonel snapping him a salute and responding in the same innocent vein. And when, moments later, Cromwell volunteered to remain behind in the Control Room with O'Neill to set the auto-destruct, Hammond knew he had no choice but to accept the man's action. To do otherwise would not only risk letting O'Neill know that he suspected there was something wrong between the two officers, but would also send the message that he considered one or both men incapable of laying aside their differences and handling the current crisis in a fully professional manner. Not to mention that he had no desire to deprive Cromwell of the opportunity to at least attempt to redeem himself in the eyes of his former friend and teammate. If volunteering to face along with him the danger of setting and then hopefully outrunning the auto-destruct before it destroyed the Stargate and a portion of the surrounding base might do anything to rehabilitate their friendship, then Hammond was certainly not going to stand in the way. Besides, if there were an outside chance that Captain Carter could come up with a better solution — unlikely as he'd thought it at the time — then he needed her topside and working on it. That left O'Neill and Cromwell as the only two officers present in the Control Room itself who could be left to set the auto-destruct. He wasn't about to put a call out through the entire base to find someone to take Cromwell's place. O'Neill would just have to cope.

Of course, Carter had indeed devised a better solution, though it put the two colonels in an even trickier situation, and in the end resulted in Cromwell's loss through the misbehaving wormhole. Whatever had happened between his leaving the two of them alone in the Control Room and Cromwell's fall was something the general could only speculate on, but clearly, O'Neill was keen to find his former teammate and rescue him. From his 2IC's demeanor, Hammond inferred that this was not only a matter of professional duty, but a personal desire as well. Now if only the weather on P2A-870 would clear and let him get on with it, they would all breathe easier.

  


  
***

  


Jack O'Neill leaned back in his office chair, stretching his arms above his head, until pain across his shoulder blades reminded him that he still had healing injuries. Grimacing, he yanked open his top desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen, shaking three tablets from the bottle and swallowing them dry. Returning the bottle to the drawer, he paused, his eyes drawn to the coin sitting on the corner of the desk, next to his mouse pad. Frank's coin. He picked it up, force of habit prompting him to rub it between thumb and forefinger — 'for luck' — as he'd always done with its twin during the years he'd carried it. Tucking the coin into his palm, he pulled the drawer out a little more and rummaged around in its farthest recesses with his other hand until his fingers closed on the item he sought. He drew out a length of chain the same as the one holding his dog tags. From this one depended not a set of tags, but a small leather pouch not much larger than the coin itself, with a zippered opening. It had been hiding in his desk since he'd first taken up occupancy of this office upon his permanent assignment to the SGC, having traveled here in a box of the sort of personal odds and ends no office seemed complete without but half of which were rarely if ever used. A couple of similar pouches lived in the back of a different drawer at his house, one of them holding the twin to the coin he'd found on P2A-870. This one, however, was empty, and O'Neill unzipped it, placing Frank's coin inside and closing the zipper again. He slipped the chain over his head, tucking the pouch inside his T-shirt to lie flat against his chest.

He shut the drawer and glanced at his clock. In another twenty-five minutes, the control room techs were due once again to query the MALP left on P2A-870. The previous two queries had only confirmed that the storms were still going on. According to the MALP's camera, their little camp near the stargate was taking a real beating from the rain, its tents flattened and water pooled in every dimple of the ground. And that was at the top of a hill. O'Neill wondered what kind of effect the incessant downpour was having on the streams he and his team had encountered in the woods, not to mention the river they fed. He wouldn't be surprised to find major flooding once they returned to the planet, and he sincerely hoped that Frank had found shelter on some sort of high ground. Damn this storm, anyway.

It was nearly lunchtime, and with any luck, this time the MALP would tell them that the rains had abated and SG-1 could return to the planet and resume the search for Frank. If that was going to happen, he might as well grab a sandwich while he waited out those remaining twenty-five minutes, because he sure as hell wasn't going to find time to eat again for a while. Pushing himself away from the desk, he unfolded his lanky frame from the chair, wincing at the twinge in his right knee, and headed for the commissary.

Arriving, he discovered he hadn't been the only one to have that thought. The other three members of his team were already present and in line for food. He joined them, collecting a nod of greeting from Teal'c, and quiet 'hellos' from Daniel and Carter. Having obtained their meals, the four retreated to a far table.

Daniel was the first to speak. "Do you think the rains will have stopped this time?"

O'Neill eyed him over a ham sandwich. "How would I know?"

"Even a storm that big has to blow itself out sometime," offered Carter, picking at a plate of chicken salad and greens. "It's been several hours, so hopefully it's run its course."

"What concerns me is that those woods are likely to be flooded," O'Neill said. "There were a lot of little streams in there. We'll be lucky to be able to even use the trails."

"Indeed there will likely be some flooding," agreed Teal'c, "but anyone in the flooded areas will have moved to high ground, including your friend. This may make the search easier."

" _If_ we can get to him," said O'Neill darkly. He fell silent, addressing himself to his lunch so as to be finished by the time the techs were due to dial the gate and take weather readings from the MALP. Following his lead, his teammates did likewise.

A half-hour later, they stood in the Control Room, watching as the gate was shut down. The storms on P2A-870 continued unabated. If anything, they'd grown more intense as the morning wore on. O'Neill walked silently from the room. Reaching the corridor, he drove his fist against the wall with a muffled curse, the physical pain serving to distract him for a moment from the feeling of utter helplessness that threatened to envelop his mind. Feeling eyes on him, he glanced up in time to see one of Janet's medical techs paused at the intersection of the cross corridor, watching him curiously. "If you tell Doc you saw me do that —"

"Do what, sir?"

"Thank you."

"Yes, sir." The tech nodded and continued on his way.

A polite cough came from behind him, and O'Neill turned to find Daniel watching him, a sympathetic look on his face. "Jack…" he began.

"I know. 'It has to stop sometime.' Right?"

The archaeologist appeared uncomfortable. "Well, yeah." At his team leader's look, Daniel blinked, pushing up his glasses. "Listen, Jack, I know this is difficult for you. I know how it feels to want to go out and find someone you've lost, and to not be able to do it right away."

The colonel took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Of course Daniel understood, if anyone did. "Thanks, Daniel."


	18. Turning of the Wheel: Spring

Cadogan moved one of his knights and sat back, listening to the pop and crackle of the fire in the hearth. Lamplight painted the study with a golden glow, and the fragrance of mulled ale rose from the mug at his elbow, all of them helping to dispel the chill that he hoped would prove to be winter's last gasp. He'd had about enough of snowy evenings for a while.

Across the table, the man known as Neirin surveyed the chessboard, looking for the best answering move. Having only begun to learn chess a mere two we[HTML](edit#)eks ago, the _cadlywydd_ knew himself to be still very much a novice, but every once in a while he managed a move that caused his teacher to pause and think for a few moments before countering it. Of course, having two minds available to address the game gave Cadogan something of an unfair advantage, and after the first couple of games, he'd informed his symbiote Sabar that they would have to alternate, each playing a game solo, while the other merely observed rather than actively offering advice. After all, Neirin — Frank, Cadogan remembered, though no one called the quiet, dark-eyed man by that name anymore — had only himself to rely on.

{Himself and many years of experience in playing this particular game, you mean,} Cadogan's symbiote reminded him drolly.

 _Hush. Maybe I just want to see how well I can learn this on my own,_ quipped his host in response. _I would think you would, too, even though I know you've played many others like it._

On those occasions when Sabar took control and played, it was still Cadogan who did the talking, or at the very least, on the few occasions where Sabar uttered a comment of his own he was careful to do it in Cadogan's voice, as the _cadlywydd_ sensed that Neirin was still somewhat uncomfortable with the Tok'ra. As far as he could tell, Neirin didn't suspect he was interacting with anyone other than the purely human half of the blended pair.

{I would think that he's known us long enough by now to perhaps grow accustomed to me,} Sabar opined silently. {It's been more than half a year.}

Cadogan chuckled inwardly. _It took longer than that for me, if you'll recall. When I first met you and Berwyn, I wasn't sure what to think about the idea of two beings in a single body. I spent nearly a year and a half serving under the pair of you before I was really used to the concept._

The _cadlywydd_ thought back to his early days with the rebel group that Sabar and his previous host had begun quietly building, a little over a century earlier. He'd been a young man then, barely into his twenties, and fired up by the ideals of Sabar's host Berwyn, a Pridanic man who'd spent some time as a slave at Bel's court before being given as a gift to Sabar, a Tok'ra operative doing deep cover work, posing as the emissary of yet another Goa'uld. Sabar had taken Berwyn with him when he returned to the Tok'ra, settling him among other humans on a free world whose inhabitants occasionally provided the Tok'ra with hosts. Years later, as Sabar's host was dying of old age, Berwyn had come forward and offered himself as a replacement, out of gratitude for his freedom. Sabar was reluctant at first to accept the offer, feeling that having formerly been enslaved, Berwyn deserved to live a fully independent life, but Berwyn had persisted. Once blended with Sabar, he'd managed to convince the Tok'ra operative to turn his energies to directly aiding the Pridani in gaining their freedom, and Cadogan had been among the second generation of Pridani recruited to that fight. Later becoming the pair's aide, he'd eventually become Sabar's host as well, when Berwyn sustained battle injuries too severe to be healed on the fly and there'd been no time to do anything else. Eighty years had passed since then, during which the fortunes of the rebels had alternately risen and fallen, sometimes precipitously. Only in recent years had the movement once more gathered enough strength to dare engage in operations on the scale now being employed, and even so, much of its work was still of a covert, hit-and-run nature.

{He seems so… adaptable, otherwise,} Sabar observed. {And he does all right with most of the other Tok'ra he's met.}

 _He_ is _adaptable, but I can tell when someone is less than comfortable with us, and Neirin's still at that point. He doesn't interact all that much with the other Tok'ra, and in most cases, he only knows the symbiote, rather than the host. You and I are the only pair he really spends appreciable time with, let alone having cultivated any sort of connection with either partner. He's had a lot else to cope with, don't forget. It can't have been easy, being thrust into in a strange place by whatever incident it was that sent him here, and he still won't talk about it. We're just fortunate he's comfortable enough with me to have taken charge of a team when I asked him to, since he's a good officer. It would have been a shame for his skills to go to waste when we need people like him._

{At least he's gotten to know you. If he's going to continue working closely with us, at some point he really should get to know me as well.}

 _He will, if you give him time. Though it does occur to me that while we're playing this game with him, we're more firmly on his ground, which is perhaps the best place for it to happen._ Cadogan paused, thinking. _I feel a bit duplicitous over this, but I doubt Neirin realizes that part of the time he's been speaking with you during these lessons, rather than with me directly. I wonder what he'd think if I told him you wanted to learn the game yourself?_

{Try it,} suggested Sabar, just as Neirin completed his answering move.

Cadogan returned his full attention to the board _. I will, once I finish this game. Right now, though, let me concentrate. And no, I don't want help._

It didn't take long to finish, as Neirin had Cadogan in checkmate just a short while later. He took the time to re-run a couple of segments of the game for Cadogan, pointing out what the _cadlywydd_ could have done differently to affect the outcome. Both Cadogan and Sabar were extremely competent strategists in real life — else the _Am Rhyddid_ would have been in real trouble — but this particular board game was still something new to them. Neirin, on the other hand, had learned it as a young child and played for years, the way Cadogan had learned first _brandu_ and then _gwyddbwyll_. Naturally, Cadogan knew that Neirin himself was likewise no stranger to real-world strategic considerations. All in all, it made for an interesting time whenever these three minds gathered around the chessboard. Though if Neirin were aware of the involvement of that third, alien mind as anything other than an onlooker to his and Cadogan's contests, he'd not yet let on.

Cadogan had played White this time around, and pretended to brush a piece of dust from a captured Black pawn as he spoke. "You know, Neirin, Sabar follows along when we play." He looked up, gauging the other man's reaction. "He finds it fascinating, and tells me he would enjoy learning the game from you himself, directly, rather than merely observing." He held out the pawn.

Neirin reached to take it. "I wasn't aware the Tok'ra enjoyed games."

Cadogan grinned. "Oh, absolutely, they do. They're really not so different from you and me, despite being another species entirely. Among themselves, they play several different types of games, some quite similar in nature to this one. Any intelligent species is going to have a concept of play, I think, and also a need for entertainment and intellectual challenges of some sort. The Tok'ra certainly have those, and what's more, they've lived in such close relationship to human hosts for such a long time that we've surely rubbed off on them a bit as well."

Cadogan could see his friend mulling this over as he set up the board again for another game. "I guess I never really thought about it that way," Neirin allowed. "I suppose I should have, since it makes a lot of sense. I'm just not used to Tok'ra, even now. I never encountered one before…" He paused, seeming to discard whatever he'd been about to say, before continuing, "…well, before coming here."

The _cadlywydd_ nodded. "I understand, Neirin. We both do. You've had to make a lot of adjustments over the past three seasons since you arrived. And you seem to have done so quite well, you know."

"That's largely thanks to you, and to your family," Neirin told him. "And if Sabar has had any hand in whatever moved you to do what you've done for me, then I owe him a debt of gratitude as well."

Cadogan shook his head. "You don't owe anyone anything, Neirin."

"That's where you're wrong."

"Neirin, I don't know what your people's customs are, and unless you want to tell me, I don't need to. But you already know that as far as I'm concerned — or anyone else, for that matter — you've been a Pridano yourself ever since you decided to throw your lot in with us. Everything since that time has been no more than what we'd do with anyone like you. You're useful to the _Am Rhyddid_ , so we placed you where we can benefit from your talents. You're a member of this community, so you have your share of its resources, and you know as well as I do that you've never failed to handle your share of the work that goes into its functioning. I really don't know what other explanation to offer you." Cadogan shrugged. He couldn't for the life of him fathom just what it was that made the other man insist on seeing himself as an outsider after this long, when so many had taken it on themselves to treat him as one who belonged here.

The brown eyes that met his across the chessboard held a depth of some feeling Cadogan couldn't put a name to. Whatever it was, though, it seemed to be at the core of Neirin's struggle. "I don't mean that, Cadogan." He gestured around the study. "I'm talking about here. This house; or rather, the household. You. Tesni. Anwen, Idris, everyone else. I'm not family, but you treat me like I am, and it's been a huge help, though I have no idea why you do it. But it occurs to me that with you and Sabar linked as you obviously are… he's family as well, isn't he?"

 _Ah,_ thought Cadogan. _Now we're getting somewhere._

{Perhaps,} put in Sabar.

 _Hush._ Aloud, Cadogan said, "You're right about that, Neirin. Sabar is part of this family, as much as anyone else is. He has an equal share in my life; hard not to, when he goes wherever I go, and experiences what I experience."

"He's been awfully quiet about it, then." Neirin picked up the black king, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger like a worry-stone. "Please tell me this is normal, and that he's not been staying in the background for my comfort when I'm around."

Cadogan stared at him a moment. The man had hit the truth squarely on-target. "Tesni made me aware early on that you seemed uncomfortable dealing with both a host and a symbiote in the same body, and since you've had to deal with me more, Sabar and I thought it best if perhaps — at least as much as possible — you _only_ had to deal with me for a while, at least until you'd adjusted to some of the other aspects of being here among us."

{I did? I seem to recall this being primarily your idea.}

 _You're not helping, Sabar,_ Cadogan told his symbiote. He could see Neirin observing his face, and knew he could probably tell there was an exchange of some sort going on.

"Cadogan, any issues I have with Sabar or with the Tok'ra in general are my own." Neirin shook his head. "I don't want anyone to put themselves out on my account. The idea of two minds in one body is beyond strange to me, but so are a lot of other things I've come to accept as reality lately. I managed that; I can manage this. I can't promise it won't take time, but it'll never happen if I never begin." He placed the black king on the chessboard. "You and I are friends, Cadogan. I can at least make a start at getting to know Sabar too. Just… slowly, all right?"

Cadogan nodded. "Fair enough, I'd say."

"Then let Sabar tell me that for himself."

Cadogan held his friend's gaze for a moment, before bowing his head, eyes closed, and giving control to the symbiote. Sabar opened his eyes, looking up and then inclining his head to Neirin. {"I'm sorry that our first meeting was so disturbing for you,"} he said quietly, keeping the harmonics in his voice to a minimum, sensing that perhaps it might help the other man's comfort level. {"I was presented with a crisis, but I honestly had no idea that you were completely unfamiliar with us. Had I been aware of that, I might have handled things with Gerlad differently in your presence."}

Neirin gave him the hint of a smile. "Sabar, everything was a little off for me that day. Some things still are, but I'm working on it."

Sabar nodded. {"I understand. In any case, I'm glad we can take the opportunity to get to know each other directly. I feel as though I know you relatively well due to the time you've spent in Cadogan's company already, since obviously I've been there as well. But that isn't quite the same; and of course, you don't know me at all, really, beyond what little direct interaction we've had in the field."} Even there, Cadogan had generally done the talking when they spoke directly to Neirin. Only when Sabar needed to address the larger group had he done so in his own voice, of late.

It was Neirin's turn to nod. "Time to change that." He gestured at the chessboard. "This seems as good a place to start as anywhere. Choose a color?"

 

***

 

Tesni stretched her legs, taking care not to kick the basket by her feet, which was filled nearly to the rim with peeled turnips. She set down the paring knife and indulged her arms and shoulders in the same treatment as her legs, leaning back in her chair and working out the kinks brought on by nearly an hour spent cleaning vegetables brought up from Idris and Anwen's root cellar. The turnips were small ones, the larger specimens having been mostly consumed earlier in the winter, and Tesni found it more tiring to peel many smaller ones than several large ones. At least the weather today was nice enough to allow the task to be completed outdoors. The warmth of early spring sunshine bathed the porch where she sat, and the breeze carried the scent of a forest greening and awakening from winter's harsh chill.

Picking up the knife again, she set to work on the last dozen turnips. Anwen had decreed another family dinner for this evening, which meant that most members of the household who weren't already engaged in some other necessary activity had been put to work either on prep work for the meal itself, or on giving the large house something of a cursory spring cleaning. Privately, Tesni suspected her sister-in-law of simply being bored and annoyed with the long winter just recently ended, and that this was her way of chivvying spring along. It almost seemed as though the weather had taken heed, too, for no sooner had Anwen made her pronouncement in the early-morning chill as the two women shared a pot of tea at Tesni's table than the skies had begun to clear of clouds and the sun to warm the air. By the time Tesni had completed the small list of chores necessary at her own cottage and walked over to her brother and sister-in-law's larger house, the temperature had risen far enough to cause her to shed her cloak and take her share of the work out onto the porch.

Tesni didn't mind winter itself, particularly, but spending long periods indoors grated on her nerves after a time. She was very much a creature of the outdoors, generally preferring tasks that could be completed in open air to those requiring work within a building. She also looked forward to spring each year because it greatly facilitated use of the forest trails that crisscrossed the area surrounding Llanavon, leading to other settlements or sometimes just to the sites of various resources used by the villagers. Tesni loved to hike and run, and while she was given to engaging in both year-round whenever possible, she far preferred doing so on bare ground to slogging through snow and slush, or over ice. Though even a chilly run on a snowy trail was an improvement over spending her entire day indoors, sitting next to a fire. She was by no means the only person in Llanavon who felt this way, she knew; many were the occasions on which she would take to the woods for a badly needed dose of head-clearing exertion, only to find that several sets of feet had broken the snow and churned up muddy slush before her.

One person she'd noticed who consistently engaged in the same practice was Neirin. The quiet man with the iron-gray hair and dark, sometimes brooding eyes who had arrived mysteriously last autumn was a familiar sight pounding along the same trails. He ran alone, always; and on the harshest days of winter when snow fell so thickly or was blown about so strongly as to obscure vision and keep everyone indoors or at least close to home, if she chanced to encounter him somewhere in the village she would often find him fidgeting and restless. It was a feeling she understood well, from personal experience.

And not only in herself. No, she'd seen it even more strongly and at close range in another, though it had been over seven — no, nearly eight years now since she had seen him. Nor would she ever do so again. Eogen had been her husband for only two short years, and one of the _cadlywydd_ 's men from the age of nineteen. He'd been only twenty-six when he was killed by Bel's Jaffa, in a raid that had left seven dead and resulted in five youths — girls and boys both — being taken from nearby Bren Argoed, to serve as either slaves or hosts at the whim of the Goau'ld lord. Tesni was not the only one to have lost a spouse to the Jaffa in recent years, but unlike most of the others, or at least those her own age, she had shunned the idea of remarriage. Losing one mate was quite enough, she felt, and when the time of mourning was appropriately past, had made it clear that she was not interested in another pairing. Her energies since that time had gone mainly into her own multiple roles as an evaluator of potential threats, sometime intelligence operative, and saboteur, under the direction of her uncle and of Nenniaw. Her free time belonged to her niece and her nephew, as she and Eogen had produced no children of their own before his death.

In Neirin, she saw the same restless nature, the same barely-leashed energies — as of a tightly wound coil — that she'd seen in Eogen. The older man bore no similarity of appearance or of voice to her late husband, and precious little of manner, save for two things: that physical restlessness, and the relentless inner drive which had so often kept Eogen upright and functioning far beyond the point at which most people would have succumbed to fatigue or whatever injury they had sustained. It was this same characteristic that had given her pause on Neirin's first night in Llanavon when he'd sat, pale and trembling in the candlelight, at her table after his encounter with Ris. She had seen clearly the signs that he was close to exhaustion, and yet it had taken all of her effort to get him to lie down and let himself sleep. In the morning, as she'd fed him and tended to the cuts he'd suffered as part of the incident, whose nature she still barely understood, that had resulted in his arrival on her world, she'd found herself awash in memory for the first time in years.

Not that she hadn't kept guests before, nor tended to the needs of the exhausted or injured among the _Am Rhyddid_ in the seven years since losing her husband. Or even before then, for that matter. But something in the act of doing so for the stranger — as she thought of him at the time, though that had long since changed — had put her in mind of Eogen. Perhaps it was the stoic manner that both men shared when it came to discomfort, or the simple, matter-of-fact way in which he'd responded to her questions about the cause of his injuries. Her husband had often done the same, recounting even the direst of situations as though it were little different from crossing the street. As she came to know Neirin over his first days and weeks in Llanavon, however, Tesni found herself surprised that he'd told her anything at all, since for the most part he tended to avoid speaking of himself unless asked a direct question and often even then he would do his best to deflect it. He maintained a wall of reserve, except when some special effort on the part of herself, her uncle or some other of those closest to him, if anyone could be said truly to be so, drew him out. Although it seemed to take far less effort to do so now, more than eight months on, than before. _Perhaps he is finally growing comfortable with us, and with our ways,_ she reflected. _But he still has much ground to cover._

Eogen had not been nearly as taciturn as Neirin; almost no Pridani were. It was their way to be open, vocal, even boisterous; this was simply how one got on in the world. Then again, some who had seen more than their share of hurt or of horror, as was not uncommon among certain of the _Am Rhyddid_ , particularly those who had been involved the longest, did often tend to be more quiet and reserved than their fellows. Nenniaw was a prime example of this, though even he came nowhere near the reserve exhibited by Neirin, especially early on in his stay. She wondered if Eogen himself, had he lived and spent as long in the service of the _Am Rhyddid_ as had Nenniaw, or as it seemed Neirin had as a soldier on whatever mysterious homeworld had spawned him, would have eventually become similar in attitude.

She shook her head, abandoning such woolgathering in favor of renewed attention to her turnip-peeling. She hadn't thought so strongly of Eogen in some time, and today was far too nice a day to engage in such dark contemplations. Better instead to focus on the task at hand, and the pleasant weather that might afford her the chance to escape to the forest later, once her necessary chores had been completed. She bent once more to her work, pushing all other thoughts from her mind.

So focused was she that the sound of footsteps a moment later nearly startled her into dropping the knife. She looked up to see Neirin mounting the porch steps. He must have noticed her reaction; his expression was apologetic, though she thought she detected a trace of amusement as well.

"Sorry," he said by way of greeting. "I didn't mean to make you jump. Is the _cadlywydd_ around?"

Tesni smiled. "Don't apologize. I ought to have been paying more attention; then I'd have known you were there." She laid down the knife once more, flexing her hand to release a cramp. "I don't know where my uncle is at the moment. You might try the community hall, or possibly the baths. Did you need him for something urgent?"

Neirin shook his head, then paused to brush an errant lock of hair from his forehead. Still closely cropped in comparison to most local men, his hair was nevertheless somewhat shaggier than he normally allowed it to get. _More like silver than like iron, at least in such bright sunlight,_ Tesni thought. _Interesting,_ _the way his face appears somehow younger than his hair._

"Nothing that can't wait." Neirin glanced from the basket on one side of her, containing only eleven unpeeled turnips, to the nearly full one on the other, then watched as she continued working at the cramp. "It looks like you've been at this for a while. Here, let me finish the rest."

Before she could protest, he sat down in the neighboring chair, picking up the knife and an unpeeled turnip. "Just how many mouths is Anwen planning to feed with these, anyway?" he asked as he plied the blade.

She chuckled. "The usual crowd. It's as well you came by now and saved someone the need to find you and issue an invitation. Of course, being here means being put to work if you're seen. I half expect that's why my uncle's made himself absent, and Gerlad along with him."

Neirin grinned. "That's all right. It isn't like I was doing anything much just now, anyway." He handed her the peeled turnip to put in the other basket, and took up the next client for the paring knife. "I might as well make myself useful, especially if I'm one of the people she's feeding."

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you, when you're sorry later on."

He laughed, a rare sound. "Not to worry. I'd rather be busy; you know that."

"So you've told me. Thanks for helping." Tesni fell silent for a moment, watching as Neirin peeled the turnip with deft movements. His hands were large and strong-looking, with broad palms and long graceful fingers. If he felt her gaze upon him, he took no notice, keeping his own eyes on the blade and working with the same economy of motion he brought to most tasks in which she'd seen him engage.

As he finished with the second turnip and reached to pass it to her, he glanced up, and she blinked, feeling herself color slightly. But he only said, "How's your hand?"

She placed the peeled vegetable in the basket next to her and flexed her right hand again. "The cramp is easing now. I think I just needed to take a break. Do you want me to do the rest?"

He managed to look almost offended by the suggestion. "Of course not; I said I'd finish them and I meant it. I just wanted to know if your hand still hurt." Picking up another turnip, he returned his attention to the task, shaking his head as he did so.

"My hand is fine." Tesni shrugged. "I just feel strange sitting here doing nothing while someone else works."

The knife paused in its motion, and Neirin looked up again, his gaze meeting hers. A soft chuckle escaped him. "You're as bad as I am, aren't you?" He smiled. "If you want something to do, why not tell me what to expect from springtime here? I know it's warm and sunny at the moment, but are we likely to have any more snowstorms before nice weather settles in to stay? Or is that usually over with by now? I'm afraid I'm still figuring out how the local weather works." He resumed peeling.

 _Of course,_ Tesni realized. Surely Neirin's world had seasons, but she knew that even from place to place on Tir Awyr, the prevailing weather patterns associated with the seasons might behave quite differently. And although until two months ago, she'd never left Tir Awyr herself — with the advent of increased direct action aimed at loosening Bel's hold on his worlds, that too had changed — she had long been aware from listening to Cadogan that this was true from world to world.

"By this point, we generally might only see one or two more snowfalls, and they'll most likely be light," she told him. "Now, rainstorms on the other hand… well, those are quite common in the spring. Actually, all through the warm months, as you've already seen." She took the turnip he handed her and placed it in her basket. "Most of them won't be terribly heavy, though we usually do get one or two flooding storms in mid-spring each year. Once in perhaps every ten years, we get one that will go on for two or three days. The river spills over its banks, and so do the streams in the forest. Part of the reason for the heavier walls on the river side of Llanavon is to keep floodwaters out, and they do a good job. But the trail to the compass circle will most likely be impassable for at least a day or two in the event of this type of storm, and whoever is placed on guard there will have to remain there, or more likely my uncle will order the details to rotate from Dinas Coedwyg in that event. You'll want to speak to him about that. Of course, anyone coming to Tir Awyr won't be able to come directly here, either, because of flooding on the forest trails. The road between here and Dinas Coedwyg is less likely to flood, because it follows higher ground, and the trail to Bren Argoed almost never floods."

Neirin was nodding as he worked on a fourth turnip, taking in the information she was imparting. "So Llanavon is never completely cut off, then? That's good to know. Still, it sounds like some messy weather."

"It is, but it never lasts long, and it doesn't happen every year. Also, unless there are heavy rains in the uplands, and they usually don't get as much for some reason, any flooding that does happen tends to go down a day or so later. The river drains it all away pretty quickly. We're not so terribly far from the sea here. As long as the fields upriver haven't been washed out, things generally go back to normal pretty quickly. If they have, then there's replanting to be done, of course. The biggest potential problem might be logjams from fallen branches or trees if the storms also brought extremely high winds, but that's really only happened twice in my life. I was perhaps eight years old the first time there was a jam, and I remember the water rose quite high because of it. But many people worked to clear the jam and the water went down again shortly afterward. The second time was about nine years ago."

He glanced at her again as he passed her the fourth peeled turnip, before turning to the fifth. "That's not so bad, I guess. Twice in…"

He trailed off, and Tesni could sense him trying to guess how long ago she might have been eight. "I'm thirty-four, if that helps," she offered, amused.

He chuckled, but didn't look up. "I realized I didn't know after I began that sentence, but I swear, I wasn't going to ask."

"Why not?" She smiled.

"Well… where I come from it isn't considered a polite question to ask a lady."

"Really? How odd." Tesni reflected that she knew very little about Neirin's world or people, but it sounded as if they had some very strange customs and taboos. "Why is it impolite?"

Neirin considered this for a moment. "You know, that's a good question. I really couldn't tell you the answer. It's just one of those things my parents taught me while I was growing up. I'm not even sure it's still taught much anymore."

"Customs on your world change that quickly?"

"Sometimes. Does that happen here?"

"It depends. But sometimes they do." She reached out to take the fifth turnip from him. "So age is considered an impolite question, but for no real reason? That just seems strange."

"It's only considered rude when it comes to women." He shrugged and began to peel the next turnip.

"You mean it's rude to ask a woman, but not a man?" Tesni shook her head. Neirin's people were _definitely_ odd.

"Believe it or not. I suppose we do have some customs that just don't seem to make much logical sense. Then again, I think that's probably true of people everywhere."

Tesni nodded, despite the fact that he wasn't looking at her, but at his work. "From what my uncle has told me, I'm inclined to agree." She paused. "So how old are you?"

He laughed. "Well, that was direct."

"You've been among us this long and you're only now figuring out that direct questions are customary for us?" She arched an eyebrow as he glanced her way. "Besides, it can't be rude; you're a man."

He laughed again. "Point taken. I'm forty-seven. No, wait; that's in my world's years, and they're seven days longer than here." A pause. "Let's see… days are close enough to the same length back home, so I'll skip that part since it's minimal... Hmmm. Makes me forty-eight by this planet's years." He shook his head, grinning. "A week doesn't seem like much, but I guess they add up after a while."

So her initial guess on meeting Neirin hadn't been far off, Tesni reflected. She'd thought him perhaps twelve or thirteen years older than she, maybe just a bit more. The actual difference was somewhere between thirteen and fourteen, as she had a birthday coming up in just a few more weeks herself.

The door opened, and Anwen poked her head out onto the porch. "Are you nearly done with the — oh, hello, Neirin."

"Good morning, Anwen," he responded, working the last of the skin off the turnip in his hand.

Anwen cocked her head at her sister-in-law. "Decided to get yourself some help, did you?" she asked with an impish smile.

"It was his idea." Tesni shrugged. "He came looking for Cadogan, and saw I had a cramp in my hand. The next thing I knew, he took over. I was almost finished by then, though."

Neirin passed the sixth turnip to her, and looked over his shoulder with a smile for Anwen. "I couldn't let Tesni have all the fun, could I? There's only five left to do, by the way. Give me just a few more minutes." With that, he turned back to his self-appointed task.

The two women shared a look. _He's certainly in a good mood today,_ thought Tesni. In her experience, Neirin tended as a general rule to be quiet and introspective, and on occasion perhaps a touch melancholy, but overall he seemed even in his temperament. She'd seen him truly angry only a handful of times, though rumor had it there were some under his command who might be slightly more familiar with that side of him. From time to time he was given to humor, but it was a restrained sort of humor, for the most part. Today was unusual; she'd heard him laugh — not the quiet chuckle that was usually the extent of his response when amused, but actual laughter — three times in just over ten minutes. She found herself wishing he'd do it more often, as she rather liked the sound.

Anwen shook her head with a smile. "Well, if it's work you want, stay around when you're finished with those. I can find plenty for you to do on a day like today." She withdrew into the house, leaving the door ajar to bring in fresh air.

Tesni glanced over at Neirin. "I warned you," she told him dryly. "She'll have you busy for the rest of the day now."

He handed her the seventh turnip. "And I told you, I don't mind. Especially if it's something I can bring outdoors to do." He squinted up at the bright blue sky. "It's too nice a day to be inside."

"I had the same thought. Why do you think I was sitting out here?"

That earned her another laugh. "So we'll offer to… I don't know, you think of something."

"She's cleaning house, too, you know. There'll be rug-beating." The large house boasted rugs in several of the rooms, and Anwen was almost certain to want the winter's worth of dust beaten from them.

"That's our answer, then. I haven't done that since I was a boy. It's been that long since I lived in a house with that kind of rugs."

Tesni looked at him strangely. "What kind of rugs don't need the dust beaten out of them?"

He looked momentarily taken aback, as though she'd caught him talking about something he hadn't intended to. "Well… some of the homes on my world have rugs that are permanently attached to the floor."

 _Attached to the floor?_ "How do you clean them, then?"

"Ah… very carefully?" Neirin shrugged, giving her the eighth peeled turnip. "It's complicated. We have… mechanisms that can do the job, but I can't really explain them." His face grew serious, the way it often did when she managed to touch on some element of his former life that he was at a loss to explain or describe without going into far more detail than he was willing to. _And he was in such good spirits until just now._ Tesni mentally kicked herself for drawing him onto a topic that changed that.

"Forget I asked," she said, casting about for a way to restore his earlier mood. "I don't need to know, anyway. We'll beat rugs, or whatever else it is Anwen needs done, and then… well, I was thinking of going for a woods walk later, if there's time before dinner. If you'd care to come with me…?"

That seemed to help. His face brightened a bit. "I'd like that. Thank you." He turned back to his peeling.

"You know, I really can finish those last two," she said.

A grin, perhaps not quite as broad as before, but far better than the serious mood she'd seen a moment ago. "I told you, I'll do it," he said. "Just relax."

A few moments later, the last peeled turnip made its way into the basket. Tesni stood and grabbed a broom from the corner, sweeping the pile of peelings toward the edge of the porch, where Neirin caught them in the empty basket. "Leave them there for Tegwyn," Tesni told him. There was a compost pile behind the house, and Tegwyn's job was to tend it, adding refuse such as vegetable peelings to decompose into fertilizer for the family's kitchen garden. Putting the broom back in its corner, she heard him climb the porch steps again. Turning, she bent to pick up the basket of peeled turnips, intending to carry it into the house.

A pair of large, strong hands closed on the handles just before she would have grasped them. "What are you doing?" he asked. "I've got this."

She could hear the smile in his voice and looked up, seeing the same expression of mixed stubbornness and humor he always wore when insisting on doing some task she was perfectly capable of doing herself, whether it was carrying a load like this or any of a dozen other things. He did the same thing with Anwen, and with Tegwyn; even with Blodwen and Glenys, the wives of Nenniaw and Dynawd. Tesni had learned early that it was pointless to protest; this was apparently another custom with which he had been raised, or perhaps just a strong personal habit. Not that Pridani men weren't known to do the same thing on occasion, but with Neirin it was a constant, as much as the sun rising each morning. _And despite your protestations, nearly as pleasant a one,_ chided her inner voice.

She told the voice to hush, then picked up the paring knife and accompanied him into the house.


	19. Signals

"Achoo!" Tesni sneezed as another cloud of dust sailed out of the heavy rug that hung over the stout rope stretched across the yard behind Bennaeth House, the large stone dwelling occupied by Idris, Anwen, their children, and sometimes by Cadogan and his aide. Tesni herself had grown up in this house, she'd told Cromwell, and had been familiar with most of its complement of rugs since her childhood. The intricately woven patterns of green, wine and tan in this particular specimen had fascinated her as a little girl, she claimed. The colonel could see why; the rug was indeed beautiful.

At the moment, it was also very dusty. The colonel recalled helping his brother and his _naina_ Cromwell beat rugs when he was growing up. She'd had a vacuum cleaner, of course, but at least twice a year the area rugs were taken up off the hardwood floors in his grandparents' two-story frame house near Nanticoke, Pennsylvania and brought outside to have the dust beaten out of them, in addition to their weekly vacuuming. He and his older brother Nick had been given the task of helping during the early years when they and their parents lived nearby, and were often put to work on it at some point during the summer months that they both lived with their grandparents after their mother had insisted on herself, her husband and their two sons moving to Tennessee to be near her own family, outside of Knoxville.

The colonel had been eight at the time of the move, with Nick not quite thirteen, and he recalled his grandmother's firm admonition to his father to make sure that he sent "her boys" to spend summers with her and their grandfather. Owen Cromwell had acquiesced, something that pleased both of his sons, even if Nick did pretend to complain a bit the year he was sixteen. From just a few days after school let out for the summer until a week or so before it began again in the fall, the two of them lived with their father's parents, enjoying the freedom of the wooded hills behind the house and the company of friends they'd known since before the move. Not that there weren't friends or places to play in their rural Tennessee neighborhood, but it was nice to not have to completely break ties with their old friends, and their grandparents doted on both boys. Summers were often a bit cooler in northeastern Pennsylvania, too, compared to the sticky humidity of eastern Tennessee in July.

Cromwell pushed the memory aside and aimed another set of blows with the rug-beater, raising a fresh cloud of dust and causing his partner in the endeavor to sneeze again, this time twice in a row. "You all right over there?" he called.

"I'm fine," responded Tesni with a smile. "I just need to time my breathing a bit better, that's all. Inhaling while there's that much dust flying about is a bad idea, but I keep doing it."

The colonel frowned. "It sounds that way. You weren't having this much trouble before, though."

"This is the worst of the rugs. It gets all the traffic through the north end of the great room." Tesni shrugged. "I'll be all right."

"Do you have something to tie over your nose and mouth? That might help."

She shook her head. "I should have thought to do that. I could have brought a handkerchief or something, but I forgot to, or I'd have probably put it on a while ago."

Pulling a folded square of linen from his belt pouch, Cromwell offered it to her. "Well, mine is clean, if you'd like to use it for that."

"You don't mind?"

"If I did, I wouldn't offer." He chuckled. "Go ahead; take it."

Tesni took the linen square, shaking it out and folding it into a triangle, which she then tied around her lower face to keep from breathing in the dust and grit. Cromwell didn't seem to be having the same problem, and he was perfectly happy to loan the item to her if it would help. She looked comical with it tied over her face, though. He could only see her eyes.

This was the last of the rugs they were going to beat for Anwen. Tegwyn and Ris had vied with them over the opportunity to tackle this particular chore; not surprisingly, he and Tesni weren't the only people looking for tasks they could do outdoors rather than indoors on a day like today. They'd agreed in the end to split the work, with Cromwell and Tesni doing the first five rugs, then turning the task over to Ris and his sister to do the other five. Once the colonel and Tesni finished this rug, they planned to absent themselves for an hour or so and go for a hike in the forest, returning in time to help in the kitchen with dinner preparations.

Working quickly, they completed the task and rolled up the rug to carry it into the house. Untying the handkerchief from her face, Tesni shook it to remove some of the dust it had collected. "I'll wash this and then get it back to you," she said, grimacing at the still-grimy fabric. "Thank you, though; this was much better than all the sneezing."

"You're welcome." The colonel lifted his end of the rolled-up rug. "Let's take this inside and tell Ris and Tegwyn it's their turn, and then get out of here for a while."

Soon they were beyond the village wall and on one of the trails that wound through the forest. Tesni carried a fabric bag slung across one shoulder, in case they encountered any useful plants she might wish to gather, despite the earliness of the season. The ground beneath their feet was soft but not muddy, littered with fallen pine needles and a few of last year's leaves. Birds chattered overhead. Somewhere, a jay scolded, hidden among the branches. Leaf-buds swelled on every twig, a few already bursting forth with nascent foliage, just enough to give distant branches a pale green haze. They passed a patch of spiky shoots, where some early plants were poking their stems up through the leaf mold on the soft forest floor. Cromwell stopped to examine them, kneeling for a closer view. Too large to be crocuses, they looked for all the world like the daffodil shoots that always showed up early in the springtime in his grandparents' garden. "Tesni, do these grow to have yellow flowers with a cup shape in their centers?"

She nodded. "They do. We call them _croeso gwanwyn_ , the welcome-spring."

 _Good grief, that's very nearly identical to what Naina called them in Welsh._ Once again, the colonel found himself plunged into memories of home.

Every time he turned around, it seemed he found something else here that reminded him of Earth. More and more those memories were coming to center on three specific things: his childhood days, especially summers spent with his grandparents, and — when Cadogan or the _Am Rhyddid_ were involved — various aspects of his Air Force career, or of his friendship with Jack. The first two made sense, given his current environment and work, but he was still at a loss to explain why Cadogan reminded him in some ways of Jack. The two were nothing alike in personality or temperament, beyond sharing one or two interests, such as chess, and of course both were military like himself. While Jack was by nature somewhat reticent unless he was indulging in humor, where he tended toward the sarcastic, Cadogan was open and genial _. Then again,_ Cromwell reflected, _most Pridani are like that, at least to some extent. It appears to be cultural._

He wondered idly what Jack O'Neill would be like had he been reared in Pridanic society. Or for that matter, himself. He knew that just by virtue of living here among the Pridani and passing himself off as one of them, he found himself absorbing at least some small portion of their habits, for protective coloration if nothing else. Cromwell knew he was still regarded as unusually reserved by most of the local folk, but he took care to appear open and approachable enough not to stand out unduly. Part of that was the simple necessity of command; his own personnel and his fellow officers both needed to feel that they could communicate effectively with him, and a certain amount of camaraderie was essential to any successful military unit. Beyond that, however, he had to admit that he did feel more comfortable now with the Pridani than he had several months previously.

Abandoning that train of thought in favor of simply enjoying the nice day and the pleasant company in which he currently found himself, the colonel stood, brushing pine needles from the knees of his trews. He noticed Tesni watching his face. Her own wore an expression of curiosity. "You've seen the _croeso gwanwyn_  before, then?" she asked.

Cromwell nodded. "They grew in my _naina's_ garden, so finding these reminds me of home. A lot of things around here do that, actually." He smiled, the action demanding only minimal effort. "I'm learning that in many ways my world isn't as dissimilar to Tir Awyr as I may have thought."

"You still miss it, though." Not a question; a statement of fact. If anyone he'd met since his arrival here almost nine months ago could read him, it was Tesni. Not surprisingly, when she had been the first to begin to know him.

"You're right; I do miss it. Who wouldn't miss the place they're from, especially if they hadn't planned on leaving?" He saw her face take on a look of concern at his words, and found himself wishing to dispel it. Tesni and her family tried so hard to make him feel as though he belonged here. And in truth, he was grateful for that, just as he'd told Cadogan only a week previously. "It's all right, Tesni. As much as I still want to go home, it doesn't mean that I'm unhappy here, because I'm not."

She nodded. "I understand, Neirin. I'm sure I'd want to go home too, if I were you. But at least you do have a home here, too. I know that it isn't the same, but…"

The colonel smiled, this time without effort. "It isn't, but Tir Awyr has its own merits. I honestly have no complaints in that regard. And if I haven't said this to you before, thank you."

"For what?"

"For helping me to feel at home, that's what. Between you, Cadogan and the rest of your family, being here is a lot better than I expected when I first woke up in the compass circle last summer. Once I saw those stones, I was pretty sure there were people here, but I had no idea what kind of people, or how I'd manage to get along. Not that I ever expected to be here for anywhere near this much time, but if I had to be, then I've been very lucky to have friends. So, thank you."

Tesni smiled and laid a hand on his arm. "Neirin, it isn't any work at all to be friends with someone who gives friendship back in return. Things like helping me today, and helping Anwen, just for example. I might just as easily thank _you_."

A jay scolded directly overhead, the sound causing them both to look up. "I think we're in his garden," Tesni commented, laughing. "Come on, let's keep walking. I want to gather some willow bark while we're out here, and I know the perfect stand of willow trees."

"I think I know the place you're talking about." Cromwell pointed up the trail. "About half mile that way, to the fork in the trail, then down the right-hand path for a quarter-mile?"

"That's it, exactly. You can help me with the bark." She grinned at him. "I invited you to walk with me for the sake of your company, but as long as you're here…"

The rest of whatever she was going to say went unheard as Tesni was treated yet again to the sound of laughter.

 

***

 

"…and the aforementioned personnel to be rotated home on leave for the next three weeks, replaced by the personnel on the attached list." Cromwell finished dictating the report to his clerk, Armagil. The young man wrote quickly, using a bronze stylus to scribe the characters into the soft wax of a diptych, the wood-cased, two-leaved wax tablet-books in common use among the Pridani and other Celts for short-term record-keeping and other written material of a less-than-permanent nature. The diptych was simply two shallow wooden trays bound together with leather thongs like a book, their inner surfaces coated with a layer of beeswax to make a writing surface that could be inscribed with the use of a stylus. When not in use, the stylus was stored in a small leather sleeve attached to the tablet's cover.

Finishing the report, Armagil passed it to his commanding officer, who extracted a bronze seal from his belt pouch and pressed it lightly into the wax, leaving an impression, before returning the diptych. Tucking the seal back into the pouch, he said, "No sense in sending that on to Dinas Coedwyg. The _cadlywydd_ is due back at Bennaeth House tomorrow; just take it there and see that it is delivered." He paused, then: "On second thought, I'm going that way myself later, so I'll deliver it in person." Holding out his hands, the colonel took the diptych back from Armagil. "Were there any incoming messages to attend to?"

"No, sir." The clerk shook his head.

"Then I think we're done for today. I'll see you tomorrow morning." Cromwell gave his clerk a nod of dismissal, watching as the young man rose from his seat at the small writing desk and made his way to the door. Since the colonel took command of his twelve-person unit, the cottage that served as his quarters had also come to function as his office, as he found it helpful to handle the paperwork ubiquitous to any military unit in a quiet, private space. That the "paperwork" in question only occasionally involved actual paper in his current setting was of little consequence, as reports and records were much the same regardless of the medium in which they had their physical existence. _With one major exception,_ he reflected.

Settling himself in a chair by the window, where the light was strongest, he propped an ankle on the opposite knee and rested the diptych on his lap, at arm's length. Opening the cover, he peered at the report he had just dictated and then set his seal to. Armagil's lettering appeared bold, scribed into the waxy surface of the writing tablet in a firm, clear hand.

Try as he might, the colonel couldn't make head or tail of it, despite knowing what the report said.

He pursed his lips, his eyes following the lines of text. It wasn't a problem of focus, for all that he held things a bit farther away now to read them — or to try, in this instance — than perhaps he had three years ago. Anyone could expect to do that at some point after reaching the north side of forty, he knew, and he counted himself fortunate to have made it to forty-four before that particular need had even begun to manifest itself. Carrying a pair of reading glasses was a damned annoyance in the field, however, and one he didn't want to deal with any sooner than he absolutely had to, so he'd steadfastly refused to bow to the necessity until he had no choice. He hadn't reached that point yet before his fall through Earth's stargate; and he still hadn't, he reminded himself. No, the problem was one that glasses wouldn't have helped, even if he'd had a pair. _Or even if I needed them, which I don't, yet._

It was at once both simpler, and yet vastly more complicated than that. Cromwell had never encountered a writing system like this one before in his life.

He'd be damned if he wanted to ask someone to sit down and teach him the alphabet as though he were a kid in school. It was one thing to learn another language, even to learn to read a bit of Arabic writing, under the auspices of the Air Force. There, he'd been in the company of others with a similar background and reasons for learning. Here, he was an anomaly: the only adult in Llanavon, as far as he could tell, and possibly in the entire Pridanic culture who was illiterate in the script in which all written business hereabouts was conducted. Worse yet, he was supposed to be passing for a Pridano, a member of the people among whom he lived and worked. He knew his skills in spoken Pridanic passed muster; he'd worked hard to perfect them, and what slight accent he still retained showed up only when he was tired or stressed, affecting only a couple of vowel sounds in the language. No one had ever questioned him on it, though if that occurred, he planned to pass it off as the remnant of a childhood speech impediment, despite having suffered no such condition in reality. Having a fully fleshed out cover story was essential, however, when assuming another identity for any length of time. This left him with the rather thorny problem of literacy.

Asking openly for help would reveal him to have had no access to the Pridanic educational system, which he now knew to be fairly comprehensive, especially for a culture that in many ways approximated Europe's late medieval period or early Renaissance in terms of technological sophistication. Socially, it was much closer to his own native twentieth-century milieu in a great many ways, including the importance placed on at least a foundational education for every individual at all levels of society. Naturally, that included literacy, so to admit that he could not in fact read and write in the Pridanic script would be to reveal himself as a foreigner and invite questions, as well as possibly imperiling the way he knew he had come to be viewed not only by the men and women in his own command, but by his fellow officers.

Oh, sure, he knew he could ask Tesni or someone else in the _cadlywydd's_ close family circle for help, since not only did they know full well that he was not in fact Pridanic, but also would guard his secret. But there, pride took a hand in things, too. Cromwell knew himself to be an intelligent man, and once he'd realized that the Pridani were indeed a literate people, he had been certain that he could figure out the local script on his own, given a little bit of time to tinker. He had read for pleasure since childhood, and never had a problem; surely, he could adapt on his own to a different alphabet. Besides, for a man who had not only completed a bachelor's degree in order to receive his commission, but also a master's while on active duty and logged countless hours of classroom time in military-specific education besides, the thought of needing someone to teach him to do something as simple as _read_ all over again seemed ludicrous.

Except that he'd spent several months poring over examples of Pridanic writing, often material he'd dictated himself, and he was no closer to actually reading their script than when he began. He thought he had a few of what might be consonants figured out, and a couple more that could conceivably represent vowels, but he wasn't completely sure of that. For one thing, he wasn't even certain that the Pridani used a fully phonetic system. There were more characters than the twenty-six used in the alphabet to which he was accustomed, and he was having a hard time matching them directly to sounds in the spoken language. The fact that, as in the modern Welsh he'd learned as a child, certain elements of spoken words might mutate according to context didn't help any either, as he didn't know whether this extended to the written language as well. He suspected that it did, but thus far, a coherent pattern in the written text still eluded him.

It also didn't help any to reflect that he'd originally thought to be long gone by now, rescued by a team from Earth and returned to where he belonged, and where the nuances of Pridanic writing would be little more than an interesting academic question. Not that he found life among the Pridani unpleasant, but damn it, where was Jack? Or if not Jack, then anyone from the SGC? The longer he was here, the more he began to suspect that no one would be coming for him, and to worry about how he was going to find his own way home without having to reveal knowledge of Earth that he still feared might accidentally find its way into unfriendly hands at some point.

He shook his head, abandoning that line of thinking for now. At the moment, he had work to do here. No matter how badly he still wanted to go home, while he remained he had a duty to the _Am Rhyddid_ as well as to Cadogan, who had gone out of his way to befriend him. Whatever he did in the long term, he would find a way to do it without letting the _cadlywydd_ down.

In fact, that was another part of what drove his struggle to learn to read and write Pridanic. Thus far, everything that had occurred in the field involved only verbal instructions; he hadn't yet had to deal with the written word while actively on a mission for the _Am Rhyddid_. That all came afterward, when it was time to write reports, or in preparations beforehand. For those activities, he had early on designated one of the men who served under him as a sort of company clerk, charged with handling everything of a written nature that came either from or to the unit or himself as its commanding officer. Armagil was a pleasant and capable young man, and as far as the colonel could tell, suspected nothing of the truth about why he held the position of clerk or why the man he knew as _filwriad_ Neirin was never seen to deal with written material directly. Armagil took his position seriously and in fact seemed rather proud of his role in helping his _filwriad_ with the smooth functioning of the unit. His own good fortune to be in a position where he could detail someone else to do for him the one thing he could not do for himself was hardly lost on Cromwell; however, he suspected that it was only a matter of time before he found himself encountering written orders or other information in a situation where he could not delegate their management to his clerk. And when that day came, he feared he would indeed be letting down not only Cadogan, but also his own personnel, with potentially lethal results.

He shifted the angle of the diptych and studied it again, tracing a line of text with a finger, in a vain effort to cause it to reveal its meaning. No revelation came, however, and after a moment he closed the tablet, snorting in irritation. It was no use; he was going to have to get some help with this, and soon. Either that, or resign his position as _filwriad_ — interestingly, the term translated, as far as he could tell, as something close enough to "colonel" as made little difference, in the same way that _cadlywydd_ approximated "general" — and let someone more competent take over the small unit before his lack of facility with written Pridanic somehow led to disaster for his team in the middle of a mission.

A knock on the door interrupted these less-than-pleasant musings, and he glanced out the open window to find Ris standing on the small porch that fronted the cottage. "Sorry," he called through the window to the youth. "I got busy with some work, but I'll be right there." Rising from the chair, he placed the diptych on the writing desk again before turning to the door and his student.

After their midnight scuffle on Cromwell's first night in Llanavon, Ris had made it clear that far from being bothered by having come off the worst in the altercation, he was envious of the colonel's skill as a hand-to-hand fighter. While still nursing a bloody scrape along one cheekbone and a rapidly blooming black eye, he'd conveyed, via his aunt, his desire to have Cromwell instruct him in the art. Nonplussed at the moment, the colonel had nevertheless felt kindly toward the teenager, and not a bit chagrined at having injured him despite the fact that Ris had attacked him and he'd had no choice at the time but to defend himself. Once he'd found his feet to some extent, and the boy's injuries had healed — the latter being aided by Cadogan's use of the Tok'ra healing device — he had reminded Tesni of the request. She in turn brought it to the attention of Idris and Anwen, who were more than willing to give their consent for Cromwell to teach their somewhat headstrong son the proper way to handle a fight. That they regarded the colonel quite highly for having saved the youth's life the day after their initial encounter, regardless of Cromwell's own account of events, was perhaps instrumental. Whatever the reason, the colonel had found himself teaching fighting techniques to a willing and attentive Ris, both unarmed and with the use of wooden staffs not unlike the one with which he himself had been armed on the night Ris attacked him.

Between instructing Ris in the martial arts and also coaching him in the analytical skills and presence of mind necessary to not only surviving and winning a fight if need be but also to knowing when it was better to avoid a direct confrontation altogether, the colonel soon found himself in the position of overall mentor to the boy. Ris respected and looked up to him, something that Cromwell found oddly gratifying, despite having for years denied any reason for anyone to view him in that way. Perhaps it was the fact that Ris was still a youth, on the cusp of manhood perhaps, but not quite fully there yet. The colonel had fathered no offspring, despite genuinely liking children, and something in him responded to Ris in much the same way he felt he might have toward his own son, if he'd had one. _Or toward Charlie, at this age, had he lived to reach it… and with his father speaking to me._

Jack and Sara's boy had been the closest thing he'd had to a son of his own, back in the days before the Gulf. Cromwell had missed out on the last several years of Charlie's life, however, due to the events in Iraq that had driven a wedge between himself and his best friend. When he'd heard of Charlie's accidental death due to a self-inflicted gunshot wound from Jack's own personal weapon, he had grieved as deeply as though the child had been his own flesh and blood. In unguarded moments, he admitted to himself that this likely formed part of the reason he was adamant about giving Ris every advantage of both skill and self-control that might stand to protect him in what the colonel knew would likely be a dangerous future, as the youth was determined to take his place among the _Am Rhyddid_ just as soon as he had reached the age of majority among his people, in what was now another year and a half.

Taking up a jug from the dining table and the long wooden staff that occupied the corner by the door, Cromwell went out to meet his protégé. Ris was dressed for practice, and carried a similar staff of his own. The colonel gave group instruction to many _Am Rhyddid_ personnel in the same techniques he taught Ris, but his sessions with the teen were almost always held separately, and sometimes included his sister. Among the Pridani, women made up a not-insignificant percentage of the rebel fighting force, and according to everything he'd been told by both Tesni and by Cadogan, Pridani women had taken the field alongside men since time immemorial, even numbering among some of the Pridani's most revered military commanders in the ancient days before the various tribes brought by Bel to Tir Awyr had settled their differences and united against a common foe in the Goa'uld and Jaffa, leaving the Pridani and the Albannu as the two primary cultures. Tesni herself was no novice at the same activities in which the colonel coached Ris, and was often seen sparring with her niece, but often on days when her aunt was away or otherwise occupied, Tegwyn had taken to asking Cromwell to include her in her brother's lessons.

Despite being at first somewhat uncomfortable with the thought of teaching fighting techniques to a fourteen-year-old girl — not because of any prejudice against her learning them, but simply because it was something he'd never done before — he had quickly gotten past it when he realized that Tegwyn already had a reasonably good grasp of at least the basics. Having seen Tesni instructing her, the colonel could understand why. Tesni herself demonstrated an impressive amount of skill. The nature of Special Forces combat operations as constituted in the US military had dictated the use of all-male teams for the sort of work in which Cromwell had been involved, but over the years he'd seen his share of female military personnel who could mop the floor with most opponents of either gender in hand-to-hand fighting. Tesni certainly impressed him as someone who, if exposed to the same level and intensity of training, could probably do likewise — if she couldn't already.

The colonel's one concession in teaching Tegwyn and Ris together was to demonstrate something, usually with Ris, and then set brother and sister sparring against each other to put it into actual practice, while he observed and coached them both. In height, Ris now nearly matched Cromwell's five-foot ten; he'd shot up at least two inches over the winter and seemed poised to mimic his father, who at six feet was easily one of the tallest men the colonel had thus far encountered among the Pridani. The boy was still lightly built, however, having not yet come into his full growth. Tegwyn, on the other hand, was short and slight, much like her mother. If Cromwell had to guess, he'd say Anwen was all of five-foot one on a good day, and weighed maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Having Idris for her father meant that Tegwyn might yet have some height coming, but if so, she hadn't gotten it yet, topping her mother by only an inch at present. What she did have, however, was both an incredible amount of agility and the same feisty attitude apparent in both her mother and her aunt, and Ris did not always come off the victor in his contests with her, despite having advantages of both weight and reach.

Today, only Ris awaited him, Tegwyn having already taken her own practice session with their aunt, according to her brother. Heading out onto a patch of recently-cleared land just beyond the village walls, where trees had been felled both to allow for extra training ground and also for building materials to add to the local housing stock necessary to accommodate the increased population resulting from the same buildup of personnel that had led to Cromwell's being placed in his current command, the colonel put the teen through his paces before introducing a couple of novel moves. Nearly an hour passed as they practiced in the warm sunshine, working up a sweat. Both mentor and protégé were glad of the cool water in the jug that the colonel had brought along, and at the end of the session they were both equally grateful to repair to the public baths.

Bathed and dressed in clean clothing, Cromwell once more reflected that while Llanavon might be decidedly lacking in the sort of high-tech creature comforts that characterized life on Earth as he had known it — when he hadn't been camping in the field or sharing whatever primitive lodgings might be customary among a group like the mujaheddin or the contras, for instance — there were some elements that equaled or surpassed what he was used to back home. The baths, at once both simple and yet a luxury in their own right, were one such example, and the general friendliness of the locals was another. Even someone like Ris, who was young and who might be forgiven for or even expected in modern-day America to be perhaps less mannerly than the adults around him, hewed for the most part to a standard of courtesy that the colonel found refreshing.

For a moment, he considered Ris in terms of a solution to his dilemma with regard to written Pridanic. At the age of sixteen, the youth had just finished his formal schooling, and was certainly as literate as any of the other locals. He was aware of the fact that Cromwell lived his life among them under an assumed identity, and that he was not from any of the Five Worlds. The two of them shared a bond, and the colonel knew he could trust Ris both to help him and to keep it a secret just as he already kept the secret of his identity. Still, something in him balked at the idea of asking someone young enough to be his son for help in a matter such as this, despite the fact that the two of them already spent a fair amount of time together, which would provide the perfect cover for reading lessons. Laying the idea aside for the moment, he vowed to find a better solution.

There was one thing Ris could do for him, however. The two of them had left the baths together, and were walking back toward Cromwell's cottage, where Ris would turn off to continue up the street toward Bennaeth House, the name given to the house occupied by Idris and Anwen, and by Cadogan when he was in Llanavon. "Ris, will you take a report home for me, and put it on your uncle's desk in the study so that he has it first thing when he arrives tomorrow?"

"I'll be happy to, but aren't you coming by the house this evening yourself?"

Truth be told, Cromwell had been planning to stop by, as had become his habit. On many evenings, the various members of Cadogan's household tended to gather at the large house to pass at least a portion of the evening in conversation or games before those who did not live there drifted off once more to their individual homes. This was especially true when the _cadlywydd_ himself was present, although even in his absence the family gathered frequently. However, the colonel's earlier train of thought had left him in the sort of introspective mood that often led him to crave solitude in which to contemplate whatever was bothering him. _You mean brood, don't you?_ his inner voice chided. He bade it hush, shaking his head. "I might, after dinner, but it's been something of a long day, Ris. If you don't see me later, it means I've gone to bed early."

The youth cocked his head, a look of mild concern on his face. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine, son. I just didn't sleep well last night, and I'm a little tired." Which wasn't entirely true; Cromwell had slept perfectly well the previous night. It was tonight that he worried about. He rarely had insomnia as a general rule, but what he did have were nightmares. Not every night, nor even often, but when he did have them, it was usually when he had something especially troubling on his mind and was at a loss for a solution. He'd learned over the years that this particular mindset tended to trigger something in his subconscious that would then have him reliving one or more of the most stressful or terrifying events of his life — some of which were pretty intense, given the nature of his military career over the past quarter-century — until the dreams finally forced him awake, after which he would often be wakeful for the rest of the night. Given his current concerns regarding the need to get up to speed on the written language, though he still had no more idea how he was going to do that than he had before, and the fact that thinking about that dilemma had led him onto the question of how or whether he was ever going to get home again, he knew he was quite likely primed for a disturbed night. Then again, if he was going to have nightmares and a restless night, did going to bed early really matter? What was better about going to bed early only to be awakened by his own subconscious at, say, midnight and then being up until dawn, as opposed to going to bed later, and having the same scenario take place closer to sunrise?

"I was hoping to talk you into playing chess with me tonight," said Ris.

The plaintive note in the teenager's voice brought a half-smile to the colonel's face. Having helped to make the chess set for his uncle and his mentor, Ris had quickly taken to learning the game. Given the opportunity, he'd have played daily. He was also working on another copy of the game board, and had announced his intention to carve chessmen for it out of wood this time. _Knowing Ris, he's got them half-done already, too._

"I may change my mind," Cromwell told him as they reached the cottage. Mounting the steps, he opened the door, ushering the youth inside, where he gave him the diptych. "Here. Take this for me and put it on your uncle's desk, and maybe I'll stop by later on with the chess set anyway. No promises, but if I do, we'll have at least one game, all right?"

"All right. I hope to see you later, then."

The colonel clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll see. Now go home and get your dinner before your mother wonders what's keeping you."


	20. Confession

_It is only in appearance that time is a river. It is rather a vast landscape and it is the eye of the beholder that moves_ _._ – Thornton Wilder

 

Two more check-ins with the MALP left on P2A-870 had gone by, and still the downpour continued. O'Neill stalked the corridors of the SGC, a scowl etched into his face, until Teal'c finally convinced the colonel to join him in the gym for a sparring session in an effort to vent his frustration through physical means. Daniel was holed up in his office, researching Brythonic culture and languages in the hope of gleaning some new insight regarding the people of P2A-870 for when the storms finally allowed them to return there. Samantha Carter, intrigued by the new implications her recent calculations held for wormhole physics, had taken to her lab, where she was setting up parameters for some computer modeling that might shed additional light on precisely what the effects of extreme gravitation would be on wormholes of various configurations and under different conditions of energy input. The problem fascinated her in a purely academic way, never mind that it had originated out of the effort to locate and rescue an actual living person.

The research bore similarities to the work that General Hammond had assigned her to handle in her spare time with regard to alternative applications for gate travel. Theoretically, spacetime had more than the commonly accepted four dimensions — three spatial and one temporal — useful in considering most physical questions. Up to eleven dimensions were possible, according to current theory, and exactly how wormholes might affect or be affected by things occurring in these additional dimensions was unknown. One topic the general seemed especially interested in was time-travel, although thus far Carter had come up with little more than a rather large question mark over whether or not such a thing was actually possible using a stargate. She hoped that the new information gathered from their recent experience with extreme gravitation transmitted via an open wormhole might shed some light on the question, however. Not that she actually thought it was possible to direct a wormhole to connect in any sort of controlled manner through time, in the way that Hammond seemed curious about. But clearly someone at the Pentagon was interested enough in the question to have him direct her to research it, and so she would. It was an interesting concept, after all.

Of course, just because she couldn't see any way to direct a wormhole to a specific point in time the way the stargates directed them to specific points in space, that didn't mean that time travel via stargate might be completely impossible. Loading the latest set of parameters into the modeling program, she set the program running and went to get a fresh cup of coffee.

 

***

 

The front door was open, as were the windows in most rooms of the big house. Not many homes in Llanavon had glazed windows, but the great stone house occupied by Anwen and Idris had them, thanks to the insistence of Cadogan's five-times-great-grandfather, Branoc ap Gryg, also known as Branoc Bennaeth, who'd had it built nearly three centuries previously. The rest of Llanavon had sprung up around it over time, on what had been Branoc's ancestral lands during the five-century interregnal period when Bel had gone inexplicably missing and Tir Awyr and her sister worlds enjoyed freedom. The Goa'uld to whom the Pridani now referred as Bel the Deceiver had returned to retake his domain not more than twenty years after the house was erected. Amazingly, the structure had survived the fighting intact and both it and clan Branoc had gone on to form the nucleus of the village that now occupied the shallow bend in the river called Llafarwy, not far from the stargate.

The dwelling that had come to be known as Bennaeth House had windows made of glass brought from Galla: small diamond-shaped panes set in a bronze framework formed larger panels that swung on hinges, to be opened or closed depending on the weather. The light they allowed in bounced off the whitewashed plaster walls and gave the house a bright and airy feel year-round. Today, they'd been swung wide open, and a blessedly warm breeze caressed the side of Cadogan's face as he sat at the desk in his study, comparing the information on the glowing screen of Sabar's data tablet with what was written on the wax tablet Gerlad had brought from Dinas Coedwyg. He sighed, noting that some of the figures simply didn't add up. _We'll most likely have to go there ourselves and have a look at things,_ he told Sabar.

{Not today, surely?} the symbiote asked.

 _No, it can wait until tomorrow, at least._ They'd only just returned to Llanavon the previous morning, after several days spent coordinating training exercises on Arverenem and two more briefing human operatives on Galla before stopping for a single, meeting-filled day at the Tok'ra base known to the Celts as Caer Ynys or "island fort". It was something of an apt name, given that it was a fortified and secret enclave of crystalline tunnels deep beneath the surface of a barely-habitable moon in an unoccupied system on the very fringe of Bel's territory — and what was a moon, or any world, Cadogan supposed, if not an island in space? He shook his head, recollecting his predecessor Berwyn's odd poetic bent. It had been Berwyn who had given the place its name in his native Pridanic after Sabar chose it as the location for the movement's second Tok'ra base, the first having been found and destroyed by Bel. Fortunately, there had been ample warning, and no loss of life, though the movement had lost both resources and momentum for quite some time afterward. They had clawed their way back, however.

Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his legs out beneath the desk, wriggling his toes against the rug. It was too nice a day for boots and he'd kicked off his sandals an hour ago; you didn't need footwear to sit at a desk going over records and reports. Here in the family seat, the _cadlywydd_ often kept to casual Pridanic clothing, rather than the gray uniform he wore in the more formal environs of his headquarters in Dinas Coedwyg, or in the field. A man had to be able to be comfortable in his own home, after all, and Bennaeth House _was_ his home, in actuality. As the eldest — by far — living member of the clan that included himself, Idris, Tesni, Nenniaw and Dynawd among others, along with any spouses and children, Cadogan was its _de facto_ patriarch. At only forty-two, Idris was nevertheless the eldest, after Cadogan, of the current adults in the direct line with claim to both residence in the house and heirship — Nenniaw and Dynawd were both older, but of a different familial branch within the clan — and so it was he and Anwen, along with their two children, who had been the home's primary occupants since the passing of Idris and Tesni's parents six years earlier, victims of Bel's pique during one of the Goa'uld lord's rare personal visits to Tyr Awyr. However, Cadogan had always maintained quarters here as well, claiming another of the home's six sleeping chambers for his own use. Of late, he'd spent far more time here than he had in recent years, but he had enough on his plate as it was, and so the running of the household remained firmly in Idris and Anwen's capable hands, with plenty of assistance from Tesni, despite her choice to remain in the small nearby cottage she and Eogen had occupied during their tragically brief marriage several years ago.

The thought had often crossed his mind that Tesni really ought to have taken a second mate after Eogen's death, but she had steadfastly refused, and he'd given up worrying about it after a time. Now, though, he wondered if perhaps she might be leaning in that direction after all. He'd noticed the way she watched Neirin, and while he suspected that she wasn't even quite yet aware of it herself on a conscious level, there seemed to be a certain interest on her part that crossed the line of mere friendship toward the man the _cadlywydd_ had drawn into his officer corps some eight months ago.

 _Eight?_ This was _Blodeumis_ — the blossom-month — and fourth in the cycle of twelve months that made up the local planetary year. Measuring time by the cycle of the stars visible in Tir Awyr's skies, along with its two moons, which had orbital periods of fourteen and thirty days respectively, his people had long ago divided up the year into eleven months of thirty days each and a short initial month of twenty-eight, marking the equinoxes and solstices as the centerpoints of the seasons they inhabited and placing the beginnings of the seasons at the resulting cross-quarters. The year began and ended at winter solstice, when darkness ceased its march toward supremacy and days began to lengthen again in the hemisphere occupied by the bulk of Tyr Awyr's human population. Neirin had arrived near the end of _Heulwenmis_ , the sun-drenched seventh month that immediately preceded _Tesog_ , whose name described it well, as it tended to be the hottest, most humid month of the year. So this was his ninth month among them.

{Time goes quickly, doesn't it?} commented Sabar.

Eight decades past their blending, Cadogan knew the symbiote could pick up on his train of thought most of the time, especially when it filtered through the speech centers of his brain. He was acutely aware of his tendency to subverbalize his own thoughts. Sabar had long since assured him that in his own experience, at least, most humans tended to do the same.

 _It certainly does,_ he replied, this time verbalizing deliberately for Sabar's benefit. _Of course, we've been quite busy, too._

{It's taken long enough for the movement to reach that point again, don't you think?}

 _Oh, you'll not get any argument from me on that, Sabar. None at all._

A tap on the open door to the study interrupted the conversation between host and symbiote. Cadogan turned to see Neirin standing in the doorway. "Come in, Neirin. What can I do for you?"

The other man entered and crossed to the desk. "As of this morning, I've got two men out with injuries. Coll ab Eudef stepped in a hole of some sort, probably an animal burrow, and twisted his ankle. Tathan ap Neddig smashed two fingers while helping to mend a wall, and they're on his trigger hand. I just thought you should know."

"I've got time to take a look at them myself." The _cadlywydd_ opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out his healing device. "All I was doing was going over reports anyway, and they can wait a bit." He turned the diptych toward Neirin as he felt around beneath the desk with his toes, looking for his wayward sandals. "Whoever wrote up this list has to be wrong somewhere. Do those numbers make sense to you?"

Neirin looked uncomfortable. "To be honest, I couldn't tell you."

Something in his tone made Cadogan pause in the search for his footgear. He cocked his head at his officer. "It's a simple supply list, but for some reason parts of it don't add up to what my records show we ought to have available." He tapped a finger next to a line of text scribed into the soft wax. "There, for instance."

The uncomfortable expression intensified. "Cadogan, I really _can't_ tell you."

{That's an odd response,} Sabar observed silently.

"Neirin, is something wrong?" Cadogan leaned forward, his elbows on the desk.

The other man began to shake his head, then appeared to change his mind. The broad shoulders slumped — just a trace, probably unnoticeable by anyone who hadn't spent long hours with him, the way that Cadogan and Sabar had. "I can't read the stuff you call writing, Cadogan." At the _cadlywydd's_ shocked look, he elaborated. "Oh, I can read and write just fine — in my own language. In a couple of others, too. I could probably even write Pridanic in my people's script, if I tried. But your writing system doesn't look anything like what I'm used to."

"So the reports I get from you — the ones you don't just give verbally, I mean —" Cadogan broke off, fixing the _filwriad_ with a questioning look.

Neirin nodded. "Dictated to somebody who can write them down. That goes for anything that comes to me in writing, too; one of my men reads it to me. Same one who does the writing, actually — I've made him sort of my clerk, and he thinks he's just doing it because it's his job, not because I can't do it myself." He picked up the wax tablet, holding it away from him and peering at it. "To you, this is a report. To me, it's scratches and symbols." He put the tablet down. "I've tried to figure it out on my own, because I can't exactly go asking someone to teach me to read the local writing. Not when I'm supposed to belong here, and everyone else already can, you know? I'd stand out like a sore thumb, and probably lose the confidence of at least a few of the people under me, too." His tone held just a touch of bitterness, which also probably would have gone unnoticed by anyone who didn't know him well enough to catch it.

Cadogan knew him well enough. "Good heavens, when were you planning to tell me?" A thought struck him. "You weren't, were you? And here I put you in a position where you felt like you couldn't ask for help."

Neirin looked embarrassed. "I took the job because I didn't want to let you down. I honestly thought I could figure the writing thing out on my own, if I spent enough time on it. It isn't as if it ever comes up in the field; we do everything verbally. Or I figured that…" He trailed off with a shrug, glancing down at the desk and the offending diptych.

Cadogan heard the unspoken words as clearly as if his friend had said them aloud. _'Or I figured that I'd be going home before it did.'_ He shook his head. "Of course. But not being able to read is a liability."

"I _know_ that; you don't have to tell me." The bitterness was stronger this time.

Cadogan mentally kicked himself. "Neirin, I didn't mean it that way. Forget liability; I imagine it has to be bothering you immensely just for your own sake. To go from being literate to… well, to this." The _cadlywydd_ shook his head again, this time in irritation at his own lack of insight. "This is partly my fault. I should have guessed you might be used to a different system, or I should at least have thought to ask. You've done so well with our spoken language that it was easy to just forget you might not have the written one." To Sabar, he said, _Or you should have thought of it and reminded me._

{I should have. I'm an idiot.} There was chagrin in the symbiote's tone of thought. {In any case, let's fix this.}

Neirin spread his hands and raised his head, meeting the _cadlywydd's_ eyes once more. "Eh, I probably should have said something earlier, Cadogan; you're right about that. But the way I see it, either I need someone to teach me now, and fast; or I need to step down before it's a problem in the field, because I'm guessing at some point it will be."

Cadogan fixed him with a serious look. "Resigning your command isn't an option, and you know it. I need you right where you are. Literate in Pridanic or not, you're bloody good at your job. But if you're as quick a study with our writing as you have been with other things, I really don't think this is going to be an issue anyway." His toes finally found his sandals, and he slipped his feet into them and stood, coming around the desk to clasp the other man's shoulder. "Let's go see to your injured men, and then we'll take care of your problem. I hope you won't mind spending some extra time with Tesni? Or with Anwen, perhaps? Even Idris. Any of them will be happy to teach you our writing system in your free moments. I'll even help you myself, if you like; at least when I can make time. No one else will ever know."

Neirin looked relieved. "Thank you. I'd prefer being taught, over the alternative. I like my job."

Cadogan waved the comment off as they headed toward the door. The man had to have known he wasn't going to let him resign over this. "I'm curious, Neirin. Why didn't you just ask one of the family yourself, before now? You talk with Tesni; surely you could have asked her. Or me. We spend enough time playing chess, and _gwyddbwyll_ ; some of that could have been used for reading lessons."

A shrug. "It's an awfully awkward thing to have to ask anyone. And did you ever try asking your commanding officer something like that?"

Cadogan raised an eyebrow. "No, but you couldn't have asked me as a friend?"

Another shrug. "It's awkward anyway. Especially when… well, reading used to be something I did a lot of, and not just things I _had_ to read to do my job."

{So apparently he comes from a world where literacy is as common as it is here, and people read for pleasure,} Sabar commented silently. {Doesn't narrow it down a lot, though, other than to say it can't be any world that's been under Ra's control in recent times.}

 _You're right, of course._ Both Cadogan and Sabar were still curious to know where Neirin had come from, but they respected his privacy too much to ask, given that he'd made it clear he didn't want to discuss the matter. That didn't prevent them from trying to guess, between themselves, anyway. Knowing that Ra prohibited his human subjects from reading and writing narrowed the field a little, but only a little. There were still thousands of world from which their mysterious friend could have come.

"If you're accustomed to reading for enjoyment, then this has to have been excruciating for you. We do have a fair bit of literature, Neirin, if stories are something you like." The hopeful look on the other man's face told Cadogan he'd struck home. "You and Tesni can borrow some books from my library, and use them for your lessons. My guess is you'll be reading them on your own in fairly short order."

 

***

 

The injured men tended to and healed, Cadogan and Neirin made their way back to Bennaeth House and the study. The shelves lining one wall and part of another held an assortment of things, from decorative items, tools and rolled maps to the cadlywydd's much-loved _gwyddbwyll_ set and other games. They also held a number of precious, leather-bound books. Most had spines marked in the same script that Neirin had been trying, and failing, to decipher for months. A few of the others bore markings in other writing systems, but Cadogan passed those by, going straight to a shelf that held two volumes he felt Neirin would appreciate. Pulling them from their home on the bookshelf, he laid them on the table, inviting the other man to take a seat.

"This book with the darker cover is a collection of folktales, stories the Pridani and other Celts have treasured and told for generations," he said, gesturing to the book. "Some of them are the same ones you've likely heard told aloud on gather nights, either by storytellers or in the form of songs." Neirin nodded; he'd been in attendance on more than one occasion when such entertainment took place, and had shown an interest in some of the stories. That was why Cadogan had chosen this particular book. "Since you'll be at least somewhat familiar with a few of the tales, I think that might make this a good book for practice. This other book" — he tapped the lighter leather of its cover — "is filled with maps of all the known areas on the Five Worlds, and explanations of what is found there, along with some of the history of each area. Not only do I think you'll find it interesting, but it's good information to have, given what we're doing these days."

"Oh, definitely." Neirin reached out, opening the second book to a random page. A colorful map occupied the left-hand leaf, while on the right was a wealth of writing in the script he would soon be learning. "How are these printed, Cadogan? Not hand-copied, surely?"

"Have you ever seen a printing press? Cast-metal blocks, each with a character, are placed in rows in the press, and inked —" the _cadlywydd_ began.

"Ah, movable type. I'm familiar with how it works," the _filwriad_ told him, nodding. "I just wasn't sure it existed here. And different block prints for the maps, too, I'm sure."

"Exactly. It's a technology that's been around for a while on Tyr Awyr. Almost four hundred years, in fact, and it spread from here to our sister worlds." Cadogan turned back to the shelves, picking through a stack of the wax tablets commonly used for written material whose use was intended to be temporary. "Ah, here we are." He drew one from the stack. This one was a triptych, three leaves of wax-coated trays, instead of two, though otherwise identical to the diptych in which he'd received the report from Dinas Coedwyg that had led to his discovery of Neirin's difficulty.

He opened the tablet to confirm that it was indeed blank, and plucked the stylus from the leather sleeve attached near the triptych's spine. "You can use this as a primer and also for writing practice. If you like, I'll have Tesni or Idris get you one of the printed letter-charts that the children use in school, and you can use it for reference. For right now, though, let me just write the characters out for you. You may as well get used to my hand anyway, since you'll be seeing a lot of it." He grinned, sitting down cat-corner from Neirin and beginning to write in the soft wax. "This script is based loosely on one used by both the Tok'ra and the Goa'uld, but with modifications. There are sounds in Pridanic that the original script was never originally designed to convey, as well as some sounds it can convey but no Celtic language uses, so for human use several characters have been added while dropping the unused ones, just to help prevent the human system from being confused with the other. Each character represents a particular sound, except for a few that can represent multiple sounds. Don't worry; you'll be able to tell by context which sound is appropriate."

He glanced up to see Neirin wearing a relieved expression. "So far, it doesn't sound all that different from the way the system I'm used to works. I was afraid maybe you used symbols for entire words, or at least syllables, although it didn't look like there were really quite enough for that."

"There aren't. We only have thirty-eight letters, and six of those are only used in specialized cases. For numbers, one through nine each has a symbol, and there's a symbol for zero as well. Unlike the spoken counting system based on twenties, when we write numbers it's all based on ones and tens, and units of tens, because that's easier to do in this script. Once we get beyond nine, the symbol on the left represents the ten. For each level above — hundreds, thousands, and so on — the largest unit moves one place to the left. Is that the same as what you're used to?"

"Exactly the same, and it's the one part I thought I might have figured out, though not entirely. Back to words for a second, though. What about marks to show the end of a sentence, or do you put something at the beginning instead? How about notations for questions, or other things?"

"I'll write those out, too. They're quite simple." Cadogan continued marking symbols on the tablet in a bold, even hand. "Really, you shouldn't have any problem. Take your time; don't feel like you have to rush, but since you're already accustomed to reading and writing, it's just a matter of getting used to a different set of symbols and I don't expect you'll find it terribly difficult once you get started. If someone had sat down with you months ago and given you some kind of key to link the sounds to the symbols, I'm guessing you genuinely could have figured out the rest on your own, Neirin, just as you tried to do. But you didn't have a key."

"It's been frustrating, I'll tell you that much." Now that he'd actually admitted the problem and steps were being taken to correct it, Neirin seemed to be less embarrassed. More than anything, his mood now was one of impatience to get started, if Cadogan's guess was any good.

{I'm going to bet he'll have this resolved before midsummer,} Sabar commented to his host.

 _I might be surprised if it even takes that long,_ Cadogan told him. _Especially with Tesni helping him. With her assistance, he learned our language extraordinarily fast, so clearly her approach is one that works for him._

As if summoned by her uncle's thoughts, Tesni appeared in the doorway. "Anwen told me I would find you both here," she said by way of greeting.

Cadogan noted that her eyes went to Neirin before himself. What he wasn't quite prepared for, however, was the expression — quickly hidden away — on Neirin's face at her arrival. It appeared that whatever interest he thought he'd seen on Tesni's part might have some answer on Neirin's.

Overhearing the thought, Sabar commented, {And if so, then isn't that a good thing?}

 _It is, at that. Something tells me that neither one of them is going to mind spending the extra time together that reading lessons will require. Not that I thought they would, anyway._

The symbiote chuckled. {You sly fox. You _want_ something to develop between them.}

 _Not so much wanting it in the sense of trying to make it happen,_ Cadogan explained, _as thinking that if it does occur, which now appears likely, it might be good for both of them. I really don't know what's happened to these friends of Neirin's that he expects to come for him, but if they haven't done so in this long, and he isn't interested in telling you and me where he comes from so that we can tell him how to get home, then it looks as if he will be here from now on, whether he realizes it yet or not. Having an even stronger connection here would be good for Neirin, and you and I have both always felt that Tesni ought to take another mate. I know she loved Eogen, and that she's afraid of losing someone else, but those are the risks one takes in life._

{Like you and me, since Menna and Larenan?} Menna had been Cadogan's wife for more than a quarter-century before he and Sabar blended, and had in fact become the host to another of Sabar's Tok'ra friends, Larenan, a year or so later. Cadogan and Menna being already married, Larenan and Sabar had chosen to initiate a relationship of their own. Unfortunately, after somewhat fewer than fifty short years as a blended pair, Larenan and Menna had been killed while fighting Bel's Jaffa in a raid on Arverenem. Tesni didn't even remember her Aunt Menna, having been a mere toddler at the time. Worse yet, none of Menna and Cadogan's direct descendants still survived, which was why Idris, as the great-grandson of Cadogan's younger brother, was the current heir to Bennaeth House and whatever titular clan leadership still existed for Clan Branoc, should misfortune take Cadogan from them. As for Cadogan himself, and Sabar, neither had been inclined in the thirty-odd years since Menna's and Larenan's deaths to pursue more than an occasional, temporary mating from among the Tok'ra that made up Sabar's unorthodox band.

 _That's a little different, Sabar. For one thing, you and I are just a bit busy lately. For another, we had a good long run together, Menna and I. Seventy-five years is a longer marriage than most humans get, and I don't feel especially cheated, even though I do miss both Menna and Larenan. You had fewer years with them, of course, and it was an especially short span by Tok'ra standards, but fifty years is still a healthy chunk of time. Tesni only had Eogen for two years, and they were both very young. I've no idea whether Neirin currently has a wife on his world, but something tells me he doesn't, though a man his age may well have been wed at one time. In any case, I can tell he's a good man, and I would be happy to see him with Tesni._

{Oh, I would too; don't think otherwise.}

During their exchange, Tesni had deposited a stack of wax tablets on the desk. "The courier was here from Galla, and left these for you, though she said she had to get back. How she knew to come here rather than to Dinas Coedwyg, I have no idea."

"We left word with Sefys at Caer Ynys that we would be here for a day or two before going to Dinas Coedwyg, and she would have checked in there on the way from Galla." Sefys was Sabar's Tok'ra adjutant, charged with overseeing matters at the hidden base when Sabar and Cadogan were elsewhere.

"Ah." Tesni moved to look over Neirin's shoulder at the book of maps still open on the table. Cadogan watched as he glanced up at her, and saw the quick smile they exchanged.

"Tesni, do you have a bit of free time?" the _cadlywydd_ asked.

"Of course. What do you need?"

Cadogan noted that Neirin looked just a bit uncomfortable for a second. Then the broad shoulders lifted in a shrug, as if to say, _As well Tesni as anyone to help me._

"Sit down," Cadogan bade his niece. She pulled out the chair next to Neirin and sat, while the _cadlywydd_ moved to take a seat at the head of the table, cat-corner again from the _filwriad_.

"Tesni," he began, "Neirin has brought it to my attention that he's having a bit of a problem, and it occurs to me that you might be able to help him solve it." He went on to outline the difficulty his officer was experiencing, noting as he did so that the look Tesni directed at her friend was one of concern, but never of pity, not even for an instant.

Sabar noted it too. {She's the perfect choice to teach him.}

 _I knew she would be._

When the _cadlywydd_ finished explaining, Tesni turned to Neirin. "Why in the world didn't you ask me for help before this?" she asked in exasperation. Cadogan could hear affection in her tone, even as she scolded the man next to her.

For his part, Neirin took the scolding manfully; almost cheerfully, given the look on his face. Cadogan suspected this had more to do with its source than with anything else. "I thought I could figure it out on my own. I was wrong, and now I wish I had asked earlier. But you'll help?"

"Silly question. Of course I will. When do you want to begin?"

Cadogan interjected his opinion. "As far as I'm concerned, both of you can spend the rest of today on this, for starters. Does that work for you, Neirin?"

A nod.

"Tesni?"

"Certainly, Uncle."

The _cadlywydd_ grinned. "Then the two of you go and find some quiet place to work. Tesni, figure out what you might need from the schoolhouse and I'll see that you get it, without anyone asking questions. No one is to know about this situation outside of the immediate family, and I'm only involving them to make sure that Neirin has plenty of help. You, me, Idris, Anwen, perhaps Ris and Tegwyn. That's it; not even Nenniaw or Dynawd need to know."

The two stood, teacher and student, taking up books and triptych and making their way to the door. Neirin paused at the threshold. "Cadogan."

The _cadlywydd_ met his gaze. "What is it?"

"Thank you." The dark eyes held a palpable mixture of relief and gratitude.

"No thanks necessary; I didn't do anything. Go on and get to work." He gave the _filwriad_ a smile.

Neirin returned a smart nod and left the room to catch up with Tesni.

{So, you agree they'll have this solved by midsummer?} Sabar asked.

 _Completely, or as close as makes little difference,_ Cadogan assured him. _Neirin is intelligent as anything, and Tesni's a good teacher. They'll get it done._


	21. Tutelage

_Gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder._ — G. K. Chesterton

 

“…and its principal products are lumber, textiles and paper.” Cromwell slipped the attached ribbon into the geography book that Cadogan had lent him, marking the spot where he’d left off reading aloud. Seated in the chair by the open front window of his cottage, he glanced up to where Tesni leaned over his shoulder, scanning the page along with him. “So. Do I pass?” he asked with a grin.

She grinned back and patted his shoulder. “You’ll do. Honestly, I’m surprised you even needed my help. It hasn’t taken you long at all to get this far. Just over a month?”

The colonel had spent the past five weeks working on reading and writing in nearly every free moment he could find. Once his duties to the _Am Rhyddid_ were completed for the day, and he’d done his own household chores along with his share of whatever communal tasks were assigned to him and taken the time for some exercise — without which he’d always found himself too restless to sit still long enough to study, even given the additional physical effort inherent in the business of daily living in his current environment compared to the equivalent tasks on modern Earth — he would find Tesni or some other member of the family, even Cadogan when the _cadlywydd_ was himself free, and work on his skills with the Pridanic script. He often continued on in solitary fashion, reading by the light of an oil lamp for a time before bed, mentally sounding out words written in the phonetic Pridanic alphabet as he turned the pages of one of Cadogan’s books. He’d pushed himself hard, endeavoring to make up the time he’d lost by his initial unwillingness to ask for help. More than that, though, he found the work fascinating, for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, even to himself. He’d always been the type of person who enjoyed learning for its own sake, seeking out intellectual challenges with the same enthusiasm he applied to physical ones. He was aware that many people tended to prefer one over the other, but for him the cravings had always been of equal magnitude. That fact had shaped his academic life and also his career; in this strange and unexpected place to which that career had led him, it was of immense help.

He shook his head, still smiling. “Getting started was the hard part, since I didn’t have the proper frame of reference. You and Cadogan gave me that, and don’t forget how many hours you spent drilling me on the letters.”

“I suppose. Still, you’ve picked it up fast, even if this has been almost all you’ve done in your spare time since you started.” Tesni came around from behind him to take a seat on one end of the high-backed settle, next to his chair. The bright sunlight slanting in through the window illuminated the map in the still-open book as he secured his bookmark deep into the cleft between pages before closing the volume.

Placing the book on a side-table, he said, “Well, remember, it isn’t as if I was new to the concept of reading itself, Tesni. People on my world read, and while I was there, I did learn to do it in two different scripts; one as a child and the other as an adult when I was getting ready to go to a place where I would need it. My problem was figuring out how the one used here relates to the sounds of your language. Once you helped me with that, the really hard part was done. Your writing system is actually a much better phonetic match for spoken Pridanic than the system I grew up with is for either my native language or the one I first spoke with you when I arrived, and that’s a huge help. I’ll still need to spend a lot of time practicing, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’ve been reading long enough in my own language and script that I can look at a word and not have to sound it out in my head to know what it says. I see the entire word at once, and recognize it. I still have to go through yours letter by letter half the time, the way a child would. It’s a little frustrating.”

She nodded. “I see. It should come naturally in time, though I do understand the frustration. You’re doing remarkably well, regardless.”

He smiled again. “Having a good teacher helps. I really want to thank you, and your uncle as well.”

Tesni shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Tesni, on my own world I used to do this all the time, every day, without having to think about it. Not just things I had to read for my education or to do my job, either; I read for fun, too. At least a book a week when I was growing up, and usually two. Maybe a bit less once I was in the military, but it was still pretty close to one a week except when I was extremely busy or in a place where I didn’t have the opportunity to bring one along with me. More, if I actually had enough free time. I could read faster than a lot of people, which helped.”

“There were that many books available?” Her eyes were wide.

“More than a person could read in a lifetime, even if he did nothing else, and there were new ones being written all the time. In most places on my world, books were readily available to anyone who wanted them. Now imagine coming from a place like that, where you take reading for granted, and suddenly finding yourself in an environment where you are unable to read what everyone around you can; not even when it pertains to your work. Not at all, until someone helps you learn how. That’s hardly ’nothing’, all right? I felt pretty lost there for a while, and I don’t anymore.”

“I’m glad of that, then, and I’m happy I could help.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Do you want to work on writing now, or have you had enough for one day?”

He grimaced. “My handwriting is still awful in your script, so I suppose I should work on it for a while.” Looking out the window again, he added wistfully, “It’s just that it’s so nice outside that it seems criminal to sit indoors. But I don’t want anyone to catch me at this. It’d be embarrassing, and probably lead to questions, too.

Tesni gave him another smile. “If you like, I can think of a couple of places we could go that would be private but still be outdoors. I wouldn’t mind getting outside, myself.” She stood. “Shall we take a walk, Neirin? Just bring the practice tablet my uncle gave you, and we’ll go get some fresh air.”

She led him along one of the trails that crisscrossed the forest surrounding Llanavon. Just over a month before midsummer, the late afternoon was warm and Cromwell found the shade welcome. Sunlight falling through the green-leaved branches above dappled the forest floor with bright patches that shifted as a light breeze set the leaves to dancing.

At a fork in the trail, she chose the fainter of the two paths, stopping after perhaps a quarter-klick at a trio of oaks growing so closely together their branches intertwined overhead. A weathered wooden ladder disappeared into the leaves. Amazed, the colonel looked up to see a wooden platform overhead, hidden among the branches. “A treehouse?” _Or no, wait…_

Tesni grinned and unwittingly finished the thought that was forming in his head. “This is a popular route for deer in the rutting season, and someone built a platform up there years ago. It’s a good place to hide with a bow. The deer don’t even know anyone is there, unless you make noise. It’s been added to over time, and when it isn’t being used for hunting, it’s a nice place just to get away from people for a while. I know Ris and Tegwyn used to come here all the time to play when they were a little younger, and to be honest, I’ve sat up there when I just wanted some peace and quiet. Sometimes I bring a book.”

In a childhood split between rural Pennsylvania and rural Tennessee, Cromwell had had plenty of experience with treehouses. He and his brother Nick had built one in the woods behind their parent’s home not far from Knoxville, and a similar one had been situated not far from his grandparents’ Pennsylvania home. Nick and their grandfather had built that one, before he’d really been old enough to help. And yes, he’d escaped to one or the other with a book countless times in boyhood and his teenage years. _Every time I turn around, I find something more that Tesni and I seem to have in common._ The colonel was also familiar with deer stands from his youth, though he’d only tried bowhunting from one once, preferring to use a rifle. Here, naturally, bowhunting would surely be the norm. He remembered a fair bit of venison having shown up on the menu last fall, though he hadn’t actually taken part in its procurement. Perhaps this coming deer season, assuming he was still here…

Tesni’s voice drew him out of his reverie. “So, shall we?” She gestured toward the ladder.

“After you.”

She scrambled up the ladder, leather-shod feet and pale green trews disappearing among the leaves. The platform was just over ten feet off the ground, but a large branch dipped below it and spread a covering screen of greenery that helped to disguise it from below. After a moment, a hand reached down, Tesni’s face peering over the edge of the platform as she lay on her stomach. “Give me the tablet; then you’ll have both hands free.”

Stepping onto the first rung of the ladder, he handed the triptych up, then climbed up to join her. The platform was perhaps ten feet by eight, unroofed except for the rear third, constructed of broad planks and surrounded by a low railing with gaps built in that were large enough for a person seated on the floor of the platform to slide a bow through, with room to draw it. Overhead, the oaks spread a leafy canopy. Tesni sat tailor-fashion in the middle of the platform, rolling up the sleeves of her tunic and looking about at her surroundings. Cromwell copied her. “I can see how this would be a great place to get away now and then. I had no idea it was here.”

His guide smiled. “Well, now you do. Maybe this is where we’ll conduct the rest of your lessons, not that you’ll need many now.”

“Hey, practice never hurts. I’m surprised you didn’t suggest this spot before, though.”

In answer, she pointed at a branch perhaps a dozen feet away. “See that nest?”

The colonel peered in the direction she pointed. Sure enough, there was a clump of twigs bound together with strands of dry grass and other plant material, clinging to the bough. Some enterprising bird had built a nest close to the platform. “I see it.”

“Until four days ago, there were baby warblers being raised there. They learned to fly and now the nest is abandoned for the season. I came here three weeks ago thinking to use this place, but when I saw the birds were here first, I didn’t want to frighten them away from their family, so I waited and just checked back every few days.” She shrugged. “Call me silly.”

Cromwell chuckled. “Silly, you’re not. I’d have done the same thing.”

“Really? In that case, I don’t feel silly at all.” She smiled again. “If you sit here long enough and listen, you’ll probably hear the warblers somewhere nearby; this is their territory, after all. But they’re done with the nest now, so we won’t disturb them too much by being here.”

“I wouldn’t think so.” He picked up the triptych and opened it. “Time to do some work, I guess.” One end of the stylus was flattened, for smoothing the wax surface to receive fresh writing. He applied it to the page where he’d done the previous day’s exercises. “Give me some commonly misspelled words and let’s see if I can get them right. I might as well practice that along with my handwriting.”

They spent perhaps half an hour or so on spelling and writing, with Tesni checking his work. “That’s fine,“ she said, at length. “I really think you’ve done enough for today. Only two spelling mistakes, and regardless of what you may think, I can read your writing perfectly well. Why not just relax for a while?”

He shook his head, chuckling. “I suppose so. Besides, you’ve probably had enough for one day, whether or not I have.”

“Well, yes.” At his look, she reached over and gently took the triptych from his hands, placing it out of his reach. She wore an indulgent expression, though, and patted his arm again. “Everyone needs some time off now and then, Neirin. Even you. Even me.”

Cromwell glanced up, measuring the angle of the sunlight filtering through the branches. Out of habit, he checked the watch he still wore. It confirmed what the sunlight told him, not that this was any surprise. The dinner hour was soon approaching, though admittedly, he didn’t feel particularly hungry. The full heat of summer had not yet arrived, and evenings were often still cool enough that keeping a fire burning in one’s own hearth did not create undue warmth, so while the communal kitchen would be in operation to feed the overflow of extra mouths that seemed to be always present lately in Llanavon, most people still prepared their own meals at home, and would until the humid stickiness of high summer made doing so indoors nearly unbearable. He supposed that, since he and Tesni had wandered out here rather than either of them tending to any sort of meal preparation of their own, they could grab something from the communal table when they returned. Right now, just remaining where he was, away from the bustle of an entire village full of people, had its appeal.

Besides, he was in pleasant company. He and Tesni had spent so much time together over the past five weeks that he found himself slightly surprised she wasn’t heartily sick of him by now, but in fact it seemed quite the opposite. Not of course, that he was tired of her company, either. Far from it. If he’d found her companionship enjoyable early on in his time among the Pridani, when he’d first been adjusting to his bizarre situation, his delight in her presence had only increased since then. Tesni asked nothing from him, and seemed amused whenever he did things for her anyway. Like the time he’d helped her peel turnips, or clean rugs at Bennaeth House. What she didn’t quite grasp, it seemed, was that he _enjoyed_ doing things for her. All right; admittedly, he enjoyed doing them partly because he could do them _with_ her.

 _And why not?_ he asked himself. She was a good friend, and nice to be around. In fact, he could almost be glad of having needed help learning to read her language, because it had afforded him an excuse to spend such a wealth of time with her. If he was being at all honest with himself, the more time he spent with her, the more he craved her company. Now she’d insisted he put lessons away for the moment, yet she seemed in no hurry to leave him and go do something else. _She’s right, you know,_ his inner voice chided him. _You really don’t have to be doing something constructive with every waking moment. Take a little bit of downtime, Cromwell._ In that last sentence, he heard the echo of Jack’s advice to him, first uttered over twenty years ago.

Tesni was regarding him with the expression that meant she’d caught him woolgathering again. “Now what’s on your mind?” she asked lightly. There was humor in her tone.

 _Busted._ “Would you believe me if I said ’absolutely nothing’?” he asked.

She laughed. “I would not.”

He had to laugh at himself, then. “All right, clearly you know me too well for that.” He lay back, stretching full-length on the weathered planks, hands behind his head, staring up at the patterns the leaves made overhead. “If you must know, I was thinking that you’re right. Taking a little time off is a good idea. It’s just that I forget how, sometimes. Bad habit, I know.”

She matched his position, lying back herself to gaze up into the leafy canopy. “I have the same habit, in case you haven’t noticed. Fortunately, we don’t seem to have it at the same time.” She stretched before tucking her own hands beneath her head. “I’ve seen what happens when people push themselves too hard, and it isn’t healthy.”

He couldn’t disagree on that point. “No, it isn’t; you’re right about that, too. You’re also not the first person who’s ever said it to me.”

“I’m sure I’m not.” A beat. “I didn’t mean that as a criticism, by the way.”

 _Huh?_ “I didn’t take it that way, Tesni.” He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand so that he could see her face. “Why would I?”

Her eyes, still focused on the leaves, closed for a moment in something that looked almost like discomfort before opening again, focusing this time on him. “I’m sorry, Neirin. Of course you wouldn’t.” A sheepish smile. “Don’t mind me. I’m just thinking out loud right now, more than anything.”

That was unlike her, at least in his experience. “Everything all right?” he asked, concerned.

“Fine; why?”

“I don’t know. You just sounded like you had a lot on your mind, that’s all. Not that it would be any of my business, but if there’s anything you need…“ He waved his free hand vaguely. “You’ve done a lot for me, and I’d like to think that if there were anything I could help you with, you’d say something.”

She smiled at that. “I would. Don’t worry about it, though. I was honestly just thinking, and got a little lost in the process. The same way I know you do sometimes.”

 _Ah._ So he wasn’t the only one of them with that habit, either. “I can respect that. I’m still curious as to why you thought I might feel you were criticizing me, though. You only spoke the plain truth.”

“Some people don’t take it well when you remind them they’re only human, or tell them they need to relax a bit. Especially if it comes from someone who is frequently guilty of forgetting that themselves.”

“Believe me, I’m not one of those people. And you really aren’t the only person who’s ever said it to me. At least a couple of other people have told me the same thing over the course of my life, and they weren’t wrong either. One of them even has the same problem, though not to quite the same extent, and once in a while I’ve had to remind him that he was taking life way too seriously.” _Besides, even if you were to criticize me, I could take it. It isn’t as if I haven’t aimed plenty of that at myself over the years._

She looked genuinely relieved. “All right. I’m glad you don’t mind my pointing things like that out to you.” After a pause, she said, “You and I really are a lot alike, you know that?”

“No, I’d never noticed.” He raised an eyebrow, grinning.

Tesni laughed. “Oh, good.”

He had no idea what made him do it, because he hadn’t been planning to — at least not consciously — but he leaned over and kissed her lightly. “You’d have to work pretty hard to upset me, Tesni. All right?”

She nodded. “All right.” Another pause; he could see humor playing over her features. “So what was that all about?”

 _Busted again._ “Just now?” He chuckled. “I honestly don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the moment. Was I wrong?”

“I don’t think so. It’s something that hasn’t happened to me in a while, and I was just surprised, that’s all. ”

He picked at a small sliver of wood that was in the process of separating itself from the edge of a plank. Working it free, he dropped it through the narrow cleft between two adjoining planks. “To tell the truth, so was I. It, ah… it isn’t something I’ve done in a while, myself.”

“I understand.” Something in her tone made him look up. She was staring into the branches again, with that same pensive expression he’d seen before, beginning on his first night in Llanavon.

“Tesni, if I’ve made you uncomfortable…”

She turned onto her side, facing him. “Not at all. In fact, I’m very comfortable with you, and I think you know that. This is just a difficult day for me each year. It’s a little less difficult this time, in some ways.”

Now he was thoroughly confused. “Maybe I’m dense, but help me out here. What makes today difficult?”

She shook her head. “You’re not dense at all, Neirin. Eight years ago today, Bel’s Jaffa made me a widow. Life goes on, and mine certainly has, but this one day of each year I am reminded.”

 _Shit._ He’d wondered whether Tesni had ever been wed; certainly a woman with her grace, intellect and appearance must at least have had the opportunity. Now he had his answer. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“Of course not. I know I’ve never told you, and I seriously doubt anyone else in the household would have, either, unless you had some reason for asking. Even then, they would have directed you to ask me.” She toyed with a strand of her hair as she spoke, winding the ends around one finger. “It isn’t anyone’s story to tell but mine.”

“I don’t need to know the details.” Cromwell was curious, but he wasn’t about to pry. He valued the privacy of others as highly as he valued his own.

“Ordinarily, I might agree with that, but given what just happened a moment ago…”

He held up a hand to quiet her. “Forget about that. I’ve clearly put you in an awkward spot.” _Myself, too, but that’s of little consequence._

“’Forget’ about it? Hardly. And anyway, who says I want to?” She laughed, surprising him. “Neirin, don’t you think I might have enjoyed it?”

“Well... If you did, then I’m glad.” He meant that sincerely, but this was definitely turning into one of the more awkward conversations he’d had in a long time.

“I did.” Tesni reached out and took hold of his hand, twining her fingers with his. He didn’t contest the appropriation. “Look, I haven’t the slightest idea what was going through your mind, but that’s all right. You and I know each other pretty well, I think, and we understand each other. We enjoy each other’s company, and if it turns out that perhaps we enjoy it on more than one level, what’s wrong with that?”

“Ah… where are you going with this?”

She smiled. “I have no idea. Does it matter?”

He considered that for a moment. “I don’t know. Does it? This isn’t exactly something I’ve really thought out.” _And now I wish I had, before letting impulse get the better of me._

“To be honest, I didn’t think either of us had. Let’s start from the beginning: I don’t have any idea what’s going to happen next in your life, or in mine. Up until recently, that would have been enough to keep me from acting on any sort of attraction. It’s kept me from doing so with anyone else for the past eight years. Eogen and I had only two years together, and it was the first formal pairing for both of us. He was one of my uncle’s men, from Bren Argoed, and when he died it was in the course of trying to prevent the Jaffa from taking a group of young captives away to be slaves or hosts — a situation very similar to the one that occurred on your second day here. The difference is that the Jaffa won, on the day they killed Eogen. They took the captives offworld, and I was one of three people who lost spouses in the attempt to prevent this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Anyway, after an appropriate period of mourning had passed, certain friends and family members began trying to interest me in seeking another mate. I suppose it was because I was young, and everyone just assumed I would want that again. But I wasn’t ready, nor was I certain I ever would be. It wasn’t a matter of pining for Eogen; it was more the thought of chancing the loss of someone else I might love. Right around that point, the Jaffa had come again, and when they left, Idris and I no longer had living parents. That’s why Idris is the master of Bennaeth Bod, in standing for Cadogan, who while he is in fact chieftain, obviously has other duties that prevent his taking day-to-day responsibility for the household. After Cadogan, Idris is the eldest member of the clan with direct claim to the house, and to inherit the chieftaincy of clan Branoc, or what remains of it. Before she and our father were killed, our mother was householder and heir.”

Some of the pieces were falling into place, now, in both puzzles: the first puzzle being that of Tesni’s unmarried status in a culture where it appeared that most people her age were married, and the second being the underlying structure of the clan into which he had been effectively adopted. What he’d just learned also shed a bit more light on the respect that seemed to be accorded Tesni by everyone in the village. This was not a feudal society — the Pridani had a largely egalitarian culture — but it appeared that they held certain positions of leadership to be hereditary, and Tesni was third in line for one such position. Second, effectively, when you considered that Cadogan had other business to attend to and apparently had already ceded the greater part of his clan duty to Idris. Cromwell had picked up on that much, at least, over the course of the winter, as he’d figured out why Bennnaeth Bod, or “Chieftain House“ bore that name among the locals, and listened to Tesni’s family talk over dinner. Now he knew more of the backstory.

“You’ve lost a lot of people you cared about to Bel, haven’t you?”

Tesni nodded. “I have. If I hadn’t already been directly involved with the _Am Rhyddid_ since I reached the age of majority, that would have been enough to drive me into its ranks.” She shrugged. “In any case, for most of the past eight years, I’ve avoided any… entanglements, if you will, in the hope of avoiding a repeat of what happened with Eogen. But eight years is a long time, and lately it occurs to me that I stand to lose people I care about anyway, as long as we remain enslaved to the Deceiver, and as long as we fight for our freedom, too. So there’s little point in denying myself whatever pleasure I might be able to gather while I can. Doing so only gives Bel something more than what he has taken directly from me, and by thunder, I’ve no cause to give him anything without a fight.” Her jaw was set, and something in her eyes glittered fiercely as she said this last.

If Cromwell had respected Tesni greatly before these revelations, he now found that respect increased several-fold. It was humbling to realize that his staunchest friend and ally — and perhaps more? — here was an eminently practical woman born simultaneously into both slavery and a leadership succession; who carried a large share of responsibility for family members, the well-being of a village full of people, and elements of a rebel movement aimed at throwing off the yoke of slavery; who had lost a number of people whom she loved to the enemy she fought, and who ultimately refused to bow to despair in the face of her losses, being determined instead to live as full a life as possible and in so doing spite her foe.

He admired her for it, and found himself wishing he could identify that kind of strength in himself.

“So where does this leave you and me?” he asked.

She rolled onto her stomach, still holding his hand, and propped her chin on her other hand, watching him intently. “I don’t know. Some of that depends on you, obviously. You have your own situation to deal with, and while I know you’ve been waiting for someone from your world to come and take you back there, it’s been ten months. Do you still think they will?”

“I don’t know. There are a number of possible reasons for their not having arrived yet, and only some of them imply that they never will. On the other hand, if they don’t, then eventually I’ll have to make a decision to either stay here or to try to find my own way back home. Right now I don’t know how I’d do that anyway, so it limits my choices a bit.”

At first, he’d anticipated the arrival of an SG team nearly any day, but as days stretched into weeks, he realized that it was possible that Earth’s gate, or even the base itself, might have sustained damage as a result of the bomb that he and O’Neill had set. In that case, he supposed it could conceivably take as much as several months to get everything operational again. He might well be found even yet, but in the meantime, his continued work with the _Am Rhyddid_ kept him occupied. Not only did he find in their cause something he could appreciate in the abstract, but if no rescue were forthcoming, it was entirely possible that he might live out the rest of his days among them. That made their struggle his own, in a very real and immediate way.

While it was unfortunate that these people had to be at war at all, he reflected that it did make his own transition simpler in the sense that he was doing something very similar to the career he had pursued throughout almost his entire adult life thus far. The trappings were somewhat different, the organization a lot less formal, and the weaponry something he might politely term ’bizarre’ but at the core of things, he was still doing the same sort of work he had always done, especially if you counted the times his career on Earth had involved training or working with guerrilla forces.

On occasion, he felt vaguely guilty at the thought that it was probably a lot easier for him to adjust to the Pridani’s current situation than if he’d been dropped into a society at peace where he was expected to be, say, a simple farmer and nothing more. He suspected that would have bored him out of his mind. He was too used to both mental challenges and a certain amount of adrenalin-fueled action, after nearly a quarter-century in the military, most of it in Special Operations combat units. Even training exercises were a far cry from the bucolic life. He knew what had driven him from rural Tennessee and into first university and then the military, despite the fact that, unlike his older brother, he’d actually had a choice in the matter. At least he’d used the opportunity to get an education in exchange for a commitment to serve. That was something Nick had never gotten, and would never have the chance to get.

Not, of course, that there weren’t farmers among the Pridani surrounding him, even in Llanavon. While Llanavon was supplied in part by farms farther away — being these days something akin to a military base disguised as a village — the inhabitants did indeed grow some of their own food, along with gathering what was available in the forest surrounding them. They kept livestock as well, and as an adopted member of the community, Cromwell had put in his fair share of time at the task of keeping the village fed. He even enjoyed the work, having become accustomed to similar tasks during his youth. But there was much more to life in Llanavon than that, and for this he was oddly grateful.

He had been somewhat abashed to discover the extent to which he had underestimated the Pridani on first glance. He’d soon realized that while this was on the one hand a low-tech culture, in many ways the Pridani seemed to be quite sophisticated. They were generally a polite, cooperative people who valued integrity, intellect and creativity. Universally educated and literate, they had a respectable body of written works spanning not only their own culture and that of their neighbors on Tir Awyr, but also those of their fellow Celts on four sister worlds, as well as a reasonable grasp of at least basic science and its methodology. They practiced full gender equality, something that struck him as eminently civilized. Pridani women moved with confidence and grace, expected to be listened to by men as well as by other women, and commanded respect equal to that accorded men. Girls and boys played the same games and were taught the same skills, and had the same career paths open to them in adulthood. Cromwell found this utterly refreshing compared to some cultures he had been exposed to over the course of his career on his supposedly advanced and enlightened homeworld. He could think of worse fates than having to spend the rest of his life here, among these people.

The problem was that he still wanted to go home. Whenever he had to go away from Llanavon, he still left his challenge coin with Tegwyn in case anyone from Earth came to visit, and the guards who kept watch over the Tir Awyr’s stargate knew to look out for anyone resembling an SG team. But he couldn’t shake the nagging fear that the reason why no one had come for him was because something had gone horribly wrong with the stargate on Earth, and that his exile might be permanent.

“So at least for the moment, it appears you’re stuck with us, Neirin,“ Tesni observed.

“I suppose it does,“ he agreed. “How long that moment is going to be is anyone’s guess, though.”

His companion smiled. “Tell me, how is that different from what any of us face?”

She had a point. Tesni knew as well as he did how quickly things could change. Cromwell had suspected almost from the first hours of their acquaintance that she was in some wise a member of the Pridani military, but he’d been surprised to learn that she was actually an intelligence operative among other things, tasked with gathering and conveying information and also with assessing possible threats that appeared from the direction of the stargate — including himself, initially. In the time he’d known her, she had variously served as a messenger, overseen supplies, and on at least one occasion that he knew of, coordinated and carried out an intelligence-gathering mission in a town several days’ journey distant, near one of the continent’s naquadah mines where Bel kept an outpost and a Jaffa garrison. Among the Pridani, she informed him, there was not only a proud and ancient tradition of female warriors who fought alongside their male counterparts, but some of the most renowned military leaders in her people’s history had been women. And while Tesni herself had not been involved in actual combat in recent years — beyond their one encounter with the Jaffa — not only had she done so in the past, but she considered herself fully capable of doing so in the future should the need arise. At present, however, the _Am Rhyddid_ had more need of her other abilities and so she obliged.

Cromwell found he could imagine her in the thick of the action easily enough. He wasn’t about to forget the way she’d handled the Jaffa staff weapon, or the deadliness of her aim despite what he was later to learn was the weapon’s inherent tendency to favor broad firing rather than pinpoint accuracy over any real distance. Like himself, Tesni had risked her own life in the field before, and in all likelihood would again, more than once. Between that and the experience of losing loved ones to Bel and his minions, she was well aware that life — her own or anyone’s — could alter course in an instant, or even end abruptly. It was an awareness that he understood all too well. _What matters is what you do up until whatever happens, happens._

So why was he hesitant, if she wasn’t? Especially when it had been his action, unpremeditated though it was, that had brought them to this question? _Face it, Cromwell,_ he told himself. _You’re stuck out here on your own, and you have no guarantee you’ll ever get to go home. Make a life of what you have here and now, and take tomorrow as it comes. You’ll be a happier man for it._

He shook his head, grinning. “You’ve got me there, I’ll admit.” Raising the hand whose fingers were still entangled with his own, he brushed its back with his lips. “So, now what?”

“I don’t know. I suspect we’ll figure it out as we go.” She shrugged, still smiling. “We’re both patient enough for that, I think. In any case, I know what I want to do right at the moment.”

This time, she kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Author’s Note:_
> 
>  _For those readers now clutching their heads and moaning, “Oh no, she’s turned the story into a romance!” – RELAX. No, this isn’t going to turn into a romance story, although like any good story, it has a multitude of elements and subplots. The romance depicted between Frank and Tesni is crucial to driving a major element of the primary plot that will be revealed in future chapters. Life is complex; a good tale should be, too. Keep reading, and you’ll soon find out where this is going. I can just about guarantee that not only will 99% of you like it, but most of you will be surprised, too. Just as surprised as Jack, Sam, Daniel and even Teal’c and General Hammond are going to be. And no, I’m not trying to re-do “A Hundred Days“ or anything. I know someone is probably going to bring that up, so I want to lay that idea to rest right now. Any and all parallels, real or imaginary, between that episode and this fanfic are entirely coincidental._
> 
>  _Also, for the record, I neither read nor write romance novels. I honestly can’t stand them. The closest thing to a romance novel I’ve ever enjoyed reading were the first three or four books in Diana Gabaldon’s “Outlander“ (or “Cross Stitch“, for my UK readers) series, and for the most part I read the romantic portions with an eye to the overarching historical elements of the saga… as it should be obvious by now to readers of my own work that I myself am a history buff and a lifelong student of the subject. Indeed, it is this interest combined with a strong love of asking “what if?“ that drives my depiction of the Pridani and their sister civilizations, as well as my characterization of Frank Cromwell. Authors commonly put a portion of themselves into the vessel of their characters, and I daresay that Frank and I could find plenty of mutual interests to discuss over a pot of coffee, were we ever to meet in that noöspheric multiverse envisioned by Heinlein in “The Number of the Beast“ wherein all that has ever been created in fiction resides in a form as real as you or I._
> 
>  _– Ana Lake, May 12, 2011_


	22. New Frontiers

The sun stood almost directly overhead as Cadogan dismounted in the stableyard near the _Am Rhyddid’s_ Dinas Coedwyg headquarters, handing the reins of his horse to one of the grooms. A few feet away, Gerlad and Neirin did likewise, and the three men headed into the relative coolness of the square stone building. They’d spent the morning meeting with new recruits in yet another nearby village, and the afternoon was scheduled to be taken up with in meetings with local team leaders, whom Cadogan had gotten in the habit of having Neirin advise on occasion. The _cadlywydd_ had discovered early on that his friend appeared to have undergone a wealth of education in the mechanics of warfare and the management of military personnel, training that went far beyond that of many, if not most, of the other _filwriadau_ in the rebellion’s service. Cadogan reasoned that he didn’t need to know the details of the reticent man’s background in order to make use of his knowledge, a situation that seemed to satisfy Neirin, who seemed more than willing to offer his talents under those circumstances.

Right now, however, an hour’s free time and some lunch would make a welcome break for all three of them. On the way through the ground-floor lobby, Cadogan and Neirin paused as Gerlad spoke a quick word regarding the noon meal to the young man behind the desk before rejoining them. As they climbed the stairs toward Cadogan’s office, Neirin commented, “You know, Cadogan, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. You’ve taken me to three other worlds besides this one so far, and there’s one thing I’m surprised I haven’t seen on any of them.”

“What’s that?”

 _“Gwrthaflau.”_

Cadogan blinked at the unfamiliar word. “I’m sorry?” It sounded like a Pridanic term, although he couldn’t identify its meaning. But it certainly didn’t belong to any of the other languages in which he was conversant courtesy of his symbiote, Sabar.

“Well, actually, I’m not surprised you don’t have the word for them, since you don’t have the item itself. I’ll show you what I’m talking about.” They’d reached the office, and Neirin crossed to the _cadlywydd’s_ desk. “Mind if I borrow a sheet of paper?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

The _filwriad_ took a sheet of the creamy linen-rag paper his commanding officer kept in a basket on one corner of the desk, picking up quill and ink-bottle with his other hand. He carried them to the conference table, trailed by Cadogan and Gerlad, both curious to see what he was going to do.

Neirin sat down at one corner of the table, dipped the quill pen and began to sketch, the way he’d done when describing the chess set some three months earlier. Intrigued, the other two men joined him, watching as the drawing took shape. “This is what is known as a _gwrthafl_ in _Cymraeg_ , the language I learned as a child that allowed me to learn Pridanic quickly. In my native tongue, we call them ’stirrups’. When attached properly to a saddle — and near as I can tell, we already use an appropriate kind of saddle to add these to — a pair of them makes riding more comfortable, because you have a place for your feet. Mounting and dismounting gets a lot easier, too.” Dipping the quill again, he sketched a saddle with stirrups attached by leather straps. “I’m no artist, but you get the general idea. People where I come from have been using these for centuries.”

 _Sabar, have you ever seen these things?_ Cadogan asked his Tok’ra symbiote.

{No, but I didn’t spend much time around horses until after Berwyn became my host. I don’t recall any of my previous hosts mentioning these, though I suppose if I wanted to sift through all their memories, I might find something similar.} Tok’ra symbiotes retained the memories of their hosts as well as carrying the genetic memories of their own ancestors, though after several centuries, the volume of accumulated host recollections was generally such that a conscious effort was required to recall small details. {In any case, I can see why these would be beneficial; I don’t need to have used them before to know that.}

 _I wonder what world Neirin comes from that they have things you haven’t encountered in a life the length of yours._

The symbiote chuckled. {Cadogan, I don’t know that I’ve been around enough to have seen everything that’s out there. The Goa’uld settled humans on so many planets, it doesn’t surprise me to think that a lot of things have been developed here or there that I haven’t run into. Your species is pretty creative.}

Oblivious to the _cadlywydd’s_ internal conversation with his symbiote, Gerlad spoke up, gesturing at the drawing. “What are they made of?”

“These could be made of bent wood or of metal, preferably wrapped with leather.” said Neirin. “You get a lot more stability on horseback with them than without them, and it’s a more comfortable ride. It’s even more comfortable for the horse a lot of the time, because it alters the way the rider’s weight is distributed. Don’t get me wrong; the corner horns on the front of the saddles we use help a lot more with stability than I’d expected when I first saw them, but adding stirrups would offer even more, and be a little easier on the rider’s legs.”

Cadogan spoke aloud. “Which type is better, wooden or metal?”

“Either one is fine, really. I was thinking that if I showed you this, you might want to have some made and give them a try. I know that I far prefer riding with them.”

The _cadlywydd_ nodded. “Well, since you know how they’re constructed, get together with Dubric when we get back” — Dubric was the local blacksmith in Llanavon — “and show him this. Tell him I want three sets made, to begin with. You can also talk to Ris about perhaps doing a couple of sets in wood. That way I can give both types a try. Glesig shouldn’t have any problem making the appropriate straps and attachments for the saddles if you tell her what is needed.”

He watched as Neirin jotted notes below the sketch. As expected, it hadn’t taken the man more than a few weeks to master the Tok’ra-derived Pridanic script. Midsummer was still three weeks away, and already Neirin was writing his own reports in a bold, confident hand. He had also borrowed two more books, and seemed determined to read his way through the entirety of Cadogan’s library, a thought that left the _cadlywydd_ mildly amused. Along with strategy games, a love of books was another trait the two men shared.

The biggest problem now was what to do with Armagil when Neirin’s erstwhile clerk returned from leave in another week. The young man had been proud and enthusiastic regarding his responsibilities as clerk for his _filwriad_ , and losing that duty would surely make him wonder what he’d done to displease his superiors. Neither man wished to do that to him, but Neirin no longer needed a clerk to handle tasks that involved reading and writing, preferring to do them himself.

{Gerlad has been saying for a while that he could use an assistant part-time, you know,} Sabar offered, picking up on his host’s musings. {If we assign Armagil to help Gerlad in the time that he used to spend doing what Neirin can do now for himself, that ought to work well for everyone, don’t you think?}

 _Perfect. He’ll see it as something of a promotion, and that should help deflect curiosity about why Neirin no longer makes use of him in dealing with written items._

Neirin’s newfound literacy in Pridanic was not the only product of the time he’d spent working on that particular skillset over the past several weeks, the _cadlywydd_ knew. As he’d suspected they would, Neirin and Tesni had grown even closer during her tenure as Neirin’s teacher. They didn’t go out of their way to display the fact, but it was quietly apparent to anyone who knew one or both of them well enough. Just two evenings ago, on a gather night, Cadogan had seen the pair walking hand-in-hand in the growing dusk along the street toward the village square. Intent on some private conversation of their own, they hadn’t noticed him watching from his vantage point on the other side of the street, where he’d been talking with Dynawd. As they’d passed, Cadogan had caught Tesni’s clear, bright laugh in response to something Neirin had said to her, the _filwriad’s_ own deep chuckle joining it a moment later.

“Those two sound happy,” Dynawd had remarked, glancing across the street. He raised an eyebrow at Cadogan. ”I thought Tesni decided years ago that she wasn’t interested in another pairing?”

Cadogan had merely smiled. “Things change sometimes. She could do a lot worse.”

“She could, at that.”

A knock on the open door of the office drew Cadogan’s attention back to the present. A young man entered, bearing a tray of sandwiches, with a pot of tea and three cups. Their lunch had arrived, and soon the local team leaders would follow for the afternoon’s schedule of meetings.

“Thank you, Dylan,” said Cadogan as the young man deposited the tray on the conference table and took his leave. “Gentlemen, let’s break for lunch.”

 

***

 

Carter stared at the computer screen, willing the information on it to make sense. She’d rerun the same scenario twice for each of three sets of parameters, and they all pointed toward one thing: there was no way the amount of energy directed into the wormhole by the shaped charge she’d devised could have resulted in the wormhole’s having skipped to P2A-870, even given the effects of the gravity well whose influence it had been under at the time. Or at least, not as she understood those effects, she reflected. There was an awful lot about the situation that she was still only guessing at. The effects of time dilation and extreme gravitation on an open, active wormhole represented an uncharted region in wormhole physics, one she was just now trying to map.

She had originally thought that the gravitation and the resulting time dilation would dampen the force of the bomb, possibly blunting its effect on the wormhole. As a result, she’d opted to use a stronger explosive charge than what her calculations deemed strictly necessary to cause the connection to leap away from P2W-451’s stargate, itself even deeper in the gravity well of the black hole than the SGC’s. At the time, she’d been rather less concerned with _where_ the wormhole’s connection might jump to than she was with making certain that it _did_ in fact jump. Based on the accidental side-trip she and Colonel O’Neill had taken to Earth’s previously-undiscovered Antarctic gate last year, theory suggested that a wormhole disrupted in this manner ought to jump to the next-closest gate in physical space, with a couple of caveats. For some reason, even though the stargates generated wormholes that traversed a dimension of space beyond that capable of being described by any normal three-dimensional locative coordinate system, certain of the wormholes’ characteristics did map closely enough to ordinary three-dimensional space that some elements of wormhole behavior could be predicted, including their directional orientation relative to normal space.

Therein lay the problem she was having. P2A-870 didn’t lie near enough to P3W-451, or even quite in the right direction, to have been the next closest gate destination. Oh, certainly, she’d expected something in the P2 to P3 range, depending on factors of gate orientation that she only tenuously grasped even after nearly two years of research involving an active gate with a full catalogue of addresses available to be dialed, but A? That was a little far up the gamma axis to be considered in proximity to the gate on P3W-451. According to the 3D star chart that her modeling program used, that address should have been out of bounds for a leap of the type possible under current theory, even given the somewhat over-strength output of the charge they’d used. It wasn’t hideously far out of range, but it was far enough to indicate that something was wrong either with her theory, or with the modeling program itself.

Because clearly, P2A-870 _was_ the world to which the wormhole had skipped. Not only had the SGC’s computer verified it at the time, but when she and the rest of SG-1 had visited the planet, they’d found that unit coin belonging to Colonel Cromwell. Carter agreed with her CO when he said there was only one way that coin could have gotten there. According to him, only two such coins even existed now, at least in the possession of anyone who might conceivably have been anywhere near a stargate since the coins were struck. Ergo, only Colonel Cromwell could have carried the coin to that planet — _What did its inhabitants call it? Tir Awyr?_ — and subsequently dropped it there.

Absently, she reached for the mug of coffee next to her, taking a sip. It had grown cold, and she made a face as she set it back down. Again, she considered the questions raised by the results of her simulations. The problem, she realized, was that she was working with a glaringly incomplete data set. There were six known coordinates involved in a gate address, functioning in an arrangement that could be described by imagining a cube, encompassing a point contained within, and straight lines radiating out from that point to run through each of the six faces of the cube. Each line from that point to a cube face described a partial axis. These actually functioned in pairs, with each one coupling at the common point to its partner that ran through the face directly opposite. Each of the six coordinates, therefore, represented a point at which an axis passed through the imaginary surface of the cube, and each pair of coordinates described an axis running in a particular orientation and angle relative to the cube faces through which it passed.

It was an elegant system, but the problem was that six coordinates limited the amount of possible information available to only three dimensions. Since wormholes operated in — or at least through — a realm with more than three dimensions, it followed that there had to be information unavailable to the six-coordinate system. Unless some of that additional information were carried in the angular information pertaining to some of those axes themselves… and if so, she had no idea by what method, nor how to tease it out. There was, of course, the one time a gate address had been dialed using eight chevrons; the final chevron of an address — which had always been the seventh in her prior experience — indicated the point of origin for the outgoing wormhole. When O’Neill had recently dialed an eight-chevron address while under the influence of that Ancient database that had filled his head and nearly killed him, Carter surmised that the seventh chevron possibly functioned as something akin to an area code, indicating to the gate that it should dial into a specific neighboring gate network at a particular distance and direction relative to the originating gate, but which otherwise used the same coordinate system as their ”local” network.

But even that particular piece of speculation did little to shed light on the present puzzle. Carter didn’t like incomplete data sets. They made her feel like she was groping in the dark for answers that hovered stubbornly just out of reach. Certainly, the type of research she’d been involved in, and even the field in which she’d chosen to specialize, involved any amount of incomplete information. Tracking down those elusive missing pieces and plugging them into the big picture was what drove her as a scientist, but when it came to real-world applications of the resulting picture, she found herself uncomfortable with the idea that something was ”good enough” if it happened to work, despite any inexplicability of why it might do so. Especially when the lives and safety of human beings were on the line, she was always happier knowing every detail that could affect that application as it pertained to them.

The stargate was no different. Sure, she traveled through it regularly herself, despite not understanding its every parameter or each factor in its operation. She could even tune out concerns for her own safety when she did so, especially after this many trips. But when it came time to sit down and actually analyze how the gate did what it did, she still found herself bothered by the inadequacy of wormhole theory in its present state to accurately describe the process and predict each result. ”Good enough” had been working so far, but now she was faced with an instance in which it simply didn’t go far enough in giving her the tools to understand what had happened to cause the result she had clearly observed first-hand.

A knock on the doorframe of her lab startled her, and she looked up to see Daniel. ”You missed another check-in with the MALP,” he informed her.

“Oh, God. I’ve been so immersed in what I’m doing here that I completely forgot to look at the time. What’s the story?”

Daniel shook his head. “It’s still raining cats and dogs on Tir Awyr, at least in the immediate vicinity of the stargate. Lots of lightning strikes, too. Jack looked like he wanted to start throwing things, and Teal’c and I had to talk him off the ledge.” He sighed. “This is really eating at him, and I can’t blame him, but I don’t know how much more waiting he can take.”

Carter swore softly. “Damn it. Realistically, of course, even a major storm system isn’t going to go on forever, so eventually we should be able to return to the planet and continue the search. The question is, what can we do to help Colonel O’Neill in the meantime? I can completely understand why he’s upset, after what he told us earlier.”

“I don’t know.” Daniel pushed off from the doorframe, coming to join her in looking at the computer screen. “What is it you’ve been working on that made you forget about the time?”

“I’ve been running some computer models of how a wormhole might behave under various gravity fields with different levels of energy input from something like that shaped charge we used, or possibly from other sources. Basically, I’m following up on some interesting things I encountered while doing the calculations that told me Colonel Cromwell might have made it to P2A-870 alive.” She massaged her forehead. “The problem is, the results of the model don’t make any sense.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they tell me that there’s no way the wormhole should have skipped to P2A-870 in the first place. And we know that it did.” She gestured toward the screen. “P2A-870 isn’t the closest stargate to P3W-451 in normal space. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But we already know the gate system uses a slightly different geometry that takes into account factors other than proximity in simple three-dimensional space. We don’t know exactly how it does this, not yet anyway, but all my prior modeling of wormhole behavior indicates that what the gate system would consider ’close’ would be a series of gates whose addresses fall into this range.” She brought up a window on the screen that listed a number of gate addresses, most from the Abydos cartouche and a few from what their CO had input during the time he held the Ancient database in his mind. “P2A-870 isn’t on the list. It’s just a short way outside the range, but still, I can’t account for how the wormhole jumped to it at all.”

Daniel looked intrigued. “Maybe the bomb gave off more energy than you thought it would?”

Carter shook her head. “No, it was made to some pretty exact specifications.” She minimized the window she’d brought up, returning the display to the chart generated by the modeling program. “It’s almost as if the wormhole translated the bulk of the energy input into travel along one specific axis of the three available when it ’chose’ — that isn’t exactly the right word, but I think you understand my meaning — which gate to skip to. Theoretically, that shouldn’t even be possible. The energy should have been spread equally across all three axes, but if it had been, then P2A-870 would have been just out of range of the skip.” She looked up, watching his blue eyes blink behind his glasses as he thought his way through what she’d just said. Daniel was no physicist, but Carter knew he actually wasn’t half bad with math and the physical sciences, especially for someone whose particular gifts had taken him in a different scientific direction. He had a natural curiosity about how the physical world worked and why, which was precisely what led to him frequently asking her the kinds of questions he’d asked while they were following that trail on P2A-870 yesterday.

“So obviously, there’s some element to this that isn’t covered by existing theory, then,” he said at length.

“Daniel, there’s so much about this entire thing — the black hole, the gravity well, their effects on the stargate and the wormhole — that isn’t covered by existing theory that I almost feel like I’ve been sent back to square one.” She gave him a wry smile. “For example, we thought we knew that a gate could only remain open for a maximum of thirty-eight minutes. But when we dialed P3W-451, it stayed open for a lot longer than that. I think one reason for that is that even if something powers down the sending gate without first initiating a closure sequence, the receiving gate can keep the wormhole open. By the time that bomb went off, thirty-eight minutes still hadn’t gone by on P3W-451, and I would guess that’s why the wormhole had stayed open so long. Now, we’d powered down our gate, but when it didn’t cut the connection, we did have someone reset the breakers so it had power once again, in case we figured another way to shut it down from our end using just the normal controls. That’s why there was enough power to maintain the wormhole through the skip, once it disconnected from P3W-451, so that we knew where it skipped to, and apparently so that Colonel Cromwell had enough time to complete his transit to P2A-870 before we performed a normal closure sequence from this end. What I don’t understand, though, is what made it connect to that gate, rather than one of the ones on that list I showed you.” She shook her head again. “I have a feeling I’m going to wind up re-evaluating a lot of what I thought I understood about both quantum gravity _and_ wormhole physics before I’m done with this.”


	23. Before I Sleep

O'Neill couldn't sleep. Not that he'd tried and failed. He just didn't dare.

He didn't have the nightmares as often anymore, but they still came for him from time to time, usually when he was stressed. They hadn't come last night, probably because he'd still been sure then that as soon as he got up, they'd be right back to the search for Frank. But now that they'd lost an entire day, especially knowing the ferocity of the storms that battered the countryside around P2A-870's stargate, he knew damn well he'd dream if he slept tonight. The last thing he needed right now was to spend half the night reliving some of the worst scenes from his life. The hell of it was that he didn't even know what he'd get. Could be Afghanistan again, hiding out in a cave while they waited for extraction, listening to Frank's choked breathing as he bled internally from a chest wound. He'd damn near lost him then, and he knew his mind was sure to serve that scene up to him.

Or maybe Nicaragua, that stinking filthy cell the Sandinistas had stuck him in; while off in the jungle, Frank racked his brain for a way to convince the leader of the contras they were supposed to have been training together to mount a rescue. Sara had been pregnant at the time, and all O'Neill had been able to think about was how it sucked that she'd have to raise his kid alone if he never got back. It had been a near thing, Frank told him later. But they'd managed to free him. He'd never forget the haunted look in Frank's eyes as he'd talked about the fourteen-year-old kid who hadn't made it, shot in the stomach in the firefight that had gotten O'Neill away from his captors. Kid called himself 'Charlie', Frank said, and he shouldn't ever have had to be there at all. He was just a boy.

Or maybe he'd find himself back in Iraq again. No, best not to think about that, even awake.

As of 2100, they'd queried the MALP on P2A-870 eight times since SG-1 returned, and still the storms continued. At some point there had even been hail; the MALP's camera had shown piles of melting hailstones gathered in the folds of their flattened tents. Some looked to be nearly the size of golf balls, and O'Neill was almost surprised that the device still functioned after that kind of bombardment. Their camp was a wreck, and God only knew how much of the equipment they and SG-5 had left behind would be salvageable once the bad weather finally passed.

But he didn't give a damn about any of that. The weather could pulverize every scrap of hardware and equipment they'd brought to the planet, for all he cared. As long as Frank came through it all right, and they found him.

It was the waiting that was going to drive him insane. The waiting, and the not knowing. On the one hand it felt strange, after so many years of not wanting to even think about Frank, to be right back to worrying about him again. For eight and a half years, his friend had fended for himself, and obviously he'd done all right. But the two of them had made a pact, a promise to watch each other's six, to never let harm come to one that the other could help him avoid.

And to always get each other home, no matter what. All right, so it hadn't worked so well in Iraq, but that wasn't Frank's fault, and O'Neill knew that now. He knew he should have recognized it sooner. They'd spent more than twelve years closer than most brothers, then lost eight over his own mindless reaction to something that had been beyond Frank's control. _Hell, it was my idea to go after those guys the way we did in the first place,_ he reflected. _Frank was the one who asked if I was crazy, why we didn't just light out for the bird when we could hear it coming in, and I was the one who kept trying to call it off, worried it would get shot up. I figured we could take out that Iraqi squad and then get everyone to the secondary extraction point... well, everyone who was still alive, anyway. Colonel Tewes probably would have done what Frank was suggesting, if those assholes hadn't already killed him. Christ, Tewes wouldn't have_ had _to think about it; it's what he would have ordered us to do anyway, and I should've known that. Frank should've been 2IC, not me; time-in-grade be damned. He had a more level head on that mission, that's for sure. It isn't his fault I picked that day to be an idiot._

 _Come on, Frank, be okay. Hang in there; I'm going to get you home._

 _I just have to find you first._

Hammond had ordered the control room team to leave off querying the MALP until dawn, reasoning that since local time at the Stargate on P2A-870 seemed more-or-less in synch with that at the SGC, there was no point in continuing to dial up the gate during the night. He wouldn't authorize a team to go through to the planet in the middle of the night anyway; not into the kind of conditions they already knew to expect after the storms. There wasn't anything they could really do in the dark and the wet, so the earliest SG-1 and SG-5 could return to the site would be at local dawn at the planet's gate, estimated to be around 0710 Mountain Daylight. With nothing to do until then, the general had ordered SG-1 to go home and get some sleep before reporting back at 0700.

Sleep. Right. What a laugh.

Daniel had offered to take him out and buy him a drink, just to get his mind off things for a while. As if he'd thought that would help. Of course, O'Neill knew that Daniel knew better — and Daniel knew he knew it. The helpless look on the archaeologist's face when he offered must have mirrored his own on the night he'd brought Daniel home to stay with him, after returning from Abydos, the colonel thought. Daniel had just had his peaceful existence with the Abydonians ripped out from under him, his wife kidnapped by the Goa'uld, and he'd had no idea what to do with himself. O'Neill hadn't quite known what to do with Daniel then, either, but he'd given him a place to stay and promised to help him. Out of that, and what had passed between them a year earlier on the first Abydos mission, had sprouted a friendship bond that was in some ways just as strong as the one he shared with Frank. It might not have quite the same depth just yet, and it certainly lacked the element of time — he'd known Frank for twenty-two years; had met Daniel only three years ago — but it was there, all the same. The fact that Daniel shared traits with Frank probably helped, just as he'd told his team around the campfire. Hell, Daniel and Frank would probably like each other, once they met.

 _So let's get a move on and make that happen._

He'd thanked Daniel for the offer, but begged off, claiming he just wanted some sleep. Daniel knew it was bullshit; he'd seen the look in the younger man's eyes. The words remained unspoken, however, and in the end O'Neill had simply climbed into his truck and spent half an hour driving aimlessly, listening to Puccini on the CD player until he no longer felt quite so much like screaming, and then gone home. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he'd tried to interest himself in SportsCenter, but his mind kept returning to Frank — to the planet, and the coin in the stream. To the storm, and its pounding fury that he didn't even want to imagine a man trying to survive in without shelter.

To a violent vortex contained in a naquadah ring, a crushing gravity that made his arms feel like they were made of lead, a broken rope... and reaching out just a fraction too late to grab the hand of his best friend as he fell.

Savagely, he'd grabbed the remote and shut off the television, flinging the device onto the couch cushions so hard that it bounced and sailed across the room. Leaving the remote it where it fell, he'd snatched up his beer and a small book from the coffee table, and made his way outside to climb up to the tiny rooftop deck where his telescope waited.

Unlike conditions on P2A-870, the skies over Colorado Springs were cloudless, stars twinkling overhead in all their glory. A warm, gentle breeze blew; just enough to rustle the leaves on the trees. Just a typical August night. _August. Yeesh._ He'd lost more than two weeks in the space of less than a day, sucked straight out of existence by a gravity well even Carter couldn't explain. It had been July twenty-third when he'd shown up for work the day they'd lost SG-10; after that bomb went off, he'd awakened in the infirmary to learn it was August seventh. This was the tenth; for a little over an hour still, anyway.

He shook his head to clear it, pulling the cover off the 'scope and dropping into the chair. Stargazing, that was the ticket. It always soothed him, like few other things managed to do. Could he even see the star that P2A-870 orbited? Carter had told him where it was. _Think, O'Neill..._ He thumbed through the book. Ah, there it was. Gliese 651, in Hercules. Close, too: fifty-eight light-years distant, give or take a bit. _That must mean P3A-451 isn't much farther, if P2A-870 was the next closest gate. Finding a black hole anywhere near this part of the galaxy would set the astronomical community on its ear. Too bad we can't release the information._ He often had trouble keeping the designations straight for the planets they visited — that was Carter's job — but he knew that these two would remain etched in his mind. He'd lost one friend and a team on the first, and would comb the second if need be to find the best friend he refused to lose again.

He trained the telescope on the heavens, sighting in on the star. Looking at it wasn't the same as being there, but it was the best he could do for tonight.

 

***

 

Cromwell tipped the stone bottle, pouring the last drop of cider into Tesni's cup. The fire crackled in the hearth, its flames the only light in the room, save a single oil lamp. Outside a gentle breeze stirred, setting the chimes hung from the porch roof to ringing. Tesni had noticed them on a peddler's cart in Dinas Coedwyg a week earlier, when both of them had accompanied Cadogan to a series of meetings. After seeing the way her face had lit up when she'd heard them, Cromwell had doubled back to the peddler while Tesni spoke with Cadogan, and bought them. The delight on her face when he'd given them to her later was heartwarming, and she'd wasted no time in affixing them to the corner of her porch, where they would catch even the slightest breeze.

She smiled at him now, listening. "I still can't believe you just slipped off like that and bought those for me, Neirin."

"Why not? You liked them, I had money with me... Nothing else better to spend it on." He grinned. "Besides, the look on your face was worth it."

She leaned in and kissed him, then nestled against his chest, smiling. He put his arms around her, and they watched the flames in the hearth leap and dance.

They'd spent the past hour sitting on cushions on the floor before the fire, talking, drinking cider and simply enjoying each other's company. Tesni had been right, he realized. Just because you didn't know what might happen next in your life, that wasn't an excuse to not enjoy the present if you could. If anything, it was even more reason to do so. Of course, sometimes that could lead to its own set of complications, but at this point he was willing to take them as they presented themselves. He really didn't have any clue when or if he would get the chance to go home to Earth, so for all intents and purposes, this _was_ home now.

Cromwell had been married on Earth, a long time ago. Technically, he still was, at least as of the day he'd fallen through the Stargate, but he hadn't seen Lisa in nine years; not since boarding a plane to return to Saudi, immediately after learning that Jack was a POW.

He'd met Lisa when he was twenty-four, just as he and Jack were finishing their first phase of Special Ops training. They'd taken to each other right away. She'd been only eighteen at the time, but possessed of a sweetness and maturity that, combined, told him in no uncertain terms that she was the woman for him. They'd married a year after they'd met, over her family's objections.

The trouble had come later, when the strain of too much time apart and too many secrets between them - the latter a depressing necessity of his career - began to eat away at their marriage. He knew he loved her, and that she loved him, but every time he had to leave, or had to withhold the truth from her when she could see he had something on his mind and only wanted to help... well, he'd felt like he was hurting her, and it broke his heart to do that. The problem was, he hadn't any choice. These were the circumstances of his career, and they'd both known that going in.

But neither of them had counted on just how much it would come between them. By the time he and Jack had been called to the Gulf, he and Lisa had been on the thin edge of a marital breakdown, and he'd known it. For a while, after the botched mission that had — he'd thought — left Jack dead and himself wounded, he'd tried to make things work. Shipped home to have the damage done by two Iraqi bullets to his shoulder repaired, he'd focused on trying to repair their marriage as well. God knew he'd had nothing else of value to focus on just then; not with his best friend dead, killed before his very eyes. He'd walked through life like a man half-dead himself for two months, and even Lisa hadn't been able to work her way completely through the wall he'd erected between himself and the world, although heaven knew she'd tried. He'd known how badly it hurt her to have him so distant even when he'd been right in the same room with her, but he'd worried even more about how much it would hurt them both if he turned loose the pain and the rage he was feeling at the universe just then. Lisa didn't need that, and she certainly didn't deserve it.

When he'd been told that Jack was still alive, imprisoned by the Iraqis, it was on the same day he'd gotten orders sending him back to the Gulf. The war was nearly over, although he hadn't known it then, and he'd gotten on the first plane back to join his unit, and to try to arrange a rescue mission if he could. He'd seen Lisa only once after that, on a brief trip home just after Jack's release — no thanks to General West, who'd been in charge of operations in the area and had flatly turned down his request to mount the rescue mission he'd planned out.

Cromwell had visited Jack in the hospital, but when Jack refused to speak to him or forgive him, only screaming invective at him over his repeated apologies, he'd decided he had nothing left to offer anyone, least of all Lisa. The military could have his skills, and his brain and body until something happened to him — and he knew it was only a matter of time before it did. As for his wife, she didn't deserve to have to put up with what he knew he had become, and so he simply stayed away. But he never divorced her, and in fact had diverted a portion of his salary each month to make sure her needs were met. When he died, the Air Force could take care of her, he'd reckoned. She'd married him expecting some sort of security, and if the financial kind was all he could offer her anymore, so be it. With any luck, she'd find someone who could give her all those other things he couldn't, and she'd make a life for herself that way and be happy. Until then, however, he was content to know that she had a roof over her head and the benefits accorded a military spouse.

She'd never requested a divorce herself, although he'd spent eight years expecting any day to learn that she wanted one, that she was ready to move on and had found someone to move on with. As of the day he fell through the Stargate, though, that still hadn't happened. He'd been gone nearly a year since then, however, and surely by now he'd been listed as dead. Lisa would have moved on with her life, and he sincerely hoped she would find someone who could make her happier than he had managed to, or could ever have managed to.

He wouldn't have that opportunity now, he was certain. Still no closer to finding his way home than when he'd first arrived, there was every chance he'd be living on Tir Awyr for the rest of his life.

At least he wasn't alone, and for that, he was grateful. Somewhere between entering Cheyenne Mountain, and these past few weeks, he'd found himself fully engaged once more with living, beyond the dictates of duty and the necessities of his job. Some of that had to do with setting things right again with Jack, even if that was perhaps the last time he would ever see him. The thought hurt, but with luck, Jack was all right. Surely they simply had no idea where to find _him_ , and that was why no rescue had come. Cromwell knew he would go to his grave doing his best to believe that, unless something proved otherwise.

But beyond Jack, something else had brought him a measure of healing as well. Cromwell's family had never been particularly large, nor particularly lucky. One of only two children, he'd lost his older brother before he himself had finished high school, and by the time he'd met Jack, his parents and grandparents were all gone as well. Along with Lisa, Jack — and later, Sara — had become his family. Charlie's birth had completed the picture. When all of that was ripped away by events in Iraq, he'd felt himself adrift and alone.

Here, among the Pridani, he was neither. Tesni and Cadogan, together with the rest of their kin, had seen to that. For the first time in more than nine years, Cromwell belonged to something besides just a military unit. And he'd found that it made all the difference in the world... _any_ world.

"Neirin?"

Abandoning his woolgathering, he looked down to see Tesni's upturned face. "Hmmm?"

"What are you thinking about?" she asked. At first a means of drawing him back from that realm he always seemed to find himself in when lost in thought, the question had evolved into something of a playful game as well, although it still sometimes saw use for that earlier purpose. Tonight, it was a little of both, perhaps.

"Just now? This." He kissed her. She responded by shifting in his arms to wrap her own around his neck, before drawing her head back slightly to study his face. Sliding the fingers of her right hand into his hair and around the back of his head, she drew him closer as she pressed her mouth to his. He responded, tasting the sweetness of her breath, feeling the warmth of her touch. His own hands traveled up her back, sliding up her neck to bury themselves in the tumble of her thick, wavy hair.

Her left hand caressed his chest, found his right nipple through the fabric of his tunic. She gave it a playful squeeze between thumb and forefinger, the touch sending a thrill through his entire body. Tesni's kiss was one thing, but it had been years, far too many of them, since he'd touched or been touched in this way. He felt himself grow hard, wanting her, knowing he had to be patient. _Wait, take your time, this doesn't have to happen all at once. No one in this room is an adolescent anymore._

He shifted position slightly, intending to improve what had to be an uncomfortable angle for her back. It certainly wasn't doing his any favors. Tesni moved with him, only she took it farther, pressing him gently backwards until they were lying on the cushions before the fire; he on his back with one knee bent, and she poised on her side, leaning over him, fingers still roaming his chest, returning again to play with his nipples. All the while, she continued to kiss him, her tongue exploring his while her other hand stroked his hair. _Dear God, she has got to know what she's doing to me._ He'd found nothing passive about Pridanic women, any of them, in his time on Tir Awyr — and there was certainly nothing passive about Tesni in any respect. He got the distinct impression she was deliberately taking the lead here. _And so what if she is? That's better than having to wonder what she wants._

He reached up, caressing her face, then carried the touch on down the smooth, soft skin of her neck. At some point, his fingers lost contact with her skin, but his hand continued its journey south, coming to gently cup her left breast, finding the nipple through the lightweight fabric of her own clothing and delivering the same treatment she'd given his. "Mmmmm," she murmured, low in her throat. The kisses ceased for a moment, and he opened his eyes to find her smiling at him. There was something both playful and primal in her expression as she wet her lips before bending to his again. After kissing him even more deeply than before, if that were possible, she turned her attention to his left ear, trailing her tongue lightly around its very edge before nibbling on the lobe, applying her teeth just enough to tickle and tease, while her left hand continued its explorations of his torso, returning again and again to pluck gently at first one nipple, then the other.

He groaned, unable to stand it, and suddenly Tesni was the one on her back, while he lay on his side, leaning over her and grinning wickedly. He was even harder now, pressed up against her flank, his right leg flung over hers for balance, but by this time she had to have known the effect she was having on him. From the look on her face and the way she moved against him, she was fully aware of the situation, and fully approving as well.

He kissed her mouth, then began to explore her neck with his tongue. The scent and taste of her flesh were like nothing he'd experienced as he carried on down the deep "V" collar of her tunic, his right hand still massaging her breast, gently pinching the nipple that stood as erect as he was. Her breath came fast and soft beneath him, and she reached out, wrapping her arms around him. "Why don't we take this into the other room?" she whispered.

 _This is definitely a woman who knows how to get what she wants. And she doesn't have to ask me twice._

He stood, held out a hand. She took it, rising from the floor and putting her arms around him, kissing him yet again, her full length pressed against him. Breaking off the kiss a moment later, she gave him a smile full of promise and turned toward the bedroom, drawing him with her. Taking the lit oil lamp from the shelf next to the bedroom doorway in passing, she set it on a similar shelf not far from her bed, where it bathed the room in soft golden light. "I want to be able to look at each other," she explained.

They were on the same page there, too.

Tesni turned down the bedcovers, kicking her sandals off as he removed his own. She turned, sliding her hands up over his shoulders and around the back of his neck again, drawing him close for another kiss. He obliged, pulling her tightly against him in the process. The feel of her lithe body against his, even with both of them still fully clothed, was amazing. Drawing back slightly after kissing her, he studied her face intently. _Good grief, Cromwell, what did you do to deserve this?_ With an effort, he pushed raw physical desire aside for a moment to focus on something he held far more important.

Tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead, he tucked it behind her ear. "You're sure about this?" he asked. He had to ask; honor permitted him no less.

Her gaze was steady, locked on his. "Completely." A smile played about her lips. "As if you couldn't tell."

Cromwell kissed her again, an emotion too long denied coursing through him, reawakened by this extraordinary woman in this unlikeliest of places and circumstances. "I love you," he said, his voice little more than a husky whisper.

Her answering smile was like the rising of a sun. "I love you, too."

They undressed each other with a mixture of awe and urgency. He ran his hands along her bare skin, marveling at the smooth perfection he found there. Her slender body was firm and taut. She had a runner's physique: built for speed, grace and wiry strength, though for all of that, she was not an especially small woman. At five-foot ten, Cromwell stood slightly taller than many men in Llanavon, and the top of Tesni's head was even with the bridge of his nose. He knew that some men preferred women who resembled tiny, delicate flowers, but he had always been drawn to the athletic type as being far more his match.

Tesni explored his body as well, her touch on his flesh awakening every nerve. He noted that she didn't shy away from the various scars he carried; neither did she seem to focus on them, appearing instead simply to accept them as part of him. Not surprising, perhaps. She'd known he was a soldier since they'd met, and that while he'd seen plenty of combat situations, he'd never seen the likes of a Tok'ra healing device before last year.

Naked now, he was grateful that the warmth of summer meant they could enjoy this experience fully, even away from the fire. Every touch, every kiss brought him to new heights of arousal, and it was clear that he wasn't alone in this. Still, he put off the act itself, wanting to prolong the exquisite enjoyment of mutual exploration... until finally, Tesni took control of matters. A subtle shift of position, and suddenly his body responded of its own accord, bringing them together with a shock of pleasure that made him gasp aloud. Tesni's own exclamation of delight was only slightly more subtle.

They made love with the tender passion of two people who had denied themselves this aspect of their lives for an enormity of time, only to find in each other a healing balm for the emotional wounds that both had allowed to restrict them in this manner. Afterward, as they lay side by side, arms and legs still entangled, Cromwell found himself fully at peace for the first time in years. He reached out, stroking the side of Tesni's face, tucking errant strands of hair once more behind her ear. "Thank you," he murmured.

She eyed him quizzically. "For what?"

"Everything. Just being, I guess." He shrugged, smiling. "I don't know. But thank you anyway."

"Neirin, I should thank you. I never thought to feel this way again, or to let myself, but that was a mistake. This is so much better." She kissed him then, running her fingers through his hair, ruffling it on top before turning in his arms until they were cuddled like spoons. She pulled up the covers over them both, with a drowsy sigh.


	24. Word On The Wind

_The only tyrant I accept in this world is the "still small voice" within._ — Mahatma Ghandi

  


Sabar fidgeted mentally as Cadogan handed a trio of wax diptychs to Gerlad, then checked the leather bag slung over his own shoulder to be certain the data tablet was still in it. Finding everything in order, the _cadlywydd_ nodded. "Right, then; I'll see you back in Llanavon the day after tomorrow." Clasping arms with his aide, Sabar's host stepped back and ceded control to the symbiote, as Gerlad busied himself at the _ta'khet_ , pressing the symbols that would connect Galla's _chappa'ai_ to the one at Caer Ynys.

After the familiar _kawoosh_ , the wormhole stabilized and Sabar stepped through, emerging deep underground in the crystalline tunnels. The wormhole evaporated behind him, and he looked around, blinking as his host's eyes adjusted to the somewhat dimmer lighting of the Tok'bel base.

Sabar and his companions referred to themselves as Tok'bel, rather than simply Tok'ra, because while they — like all of Egeria's offspring and those few Goa'uld who had abandoned their fellows and joined with her progeny over the centuries — were sworn to oppose Ra and all Goa'uld who followed Ra's ways, Sabar and his friends had adopted as their primary focus over the past nearly century and a half the freedom of humans on Tir Awyr, Arverenem, Galla, Emhain and Bohan from their enslavement by the Goa'uld Bel. Call it a test case of whether such a direct intervention could be waged successfully, with an open alliance of Tok'ra and humans.

Or call it a debt of honor, in that Sabar had cause to suspect that part of why Bel had returned to re-conquer his domain not quite three hundred years ago after an absence of nearly five centuries was due to actions taken by other Tok'ra in their clandestine operations to keep Goa'uld fighting Goa'uld so that no single System Lord or coalition of them could gain too much power in the galaxy. As far as he was concerned, if some action by the Tok'ra had harmed a group of humans, then it was only right that Tok'ra should work to mitigate that harm. Some might view the re-enslavement of the Celtic worlds as mere collateral damage in the larger effort against the Goa'uld, but blending with first one and then a second host from among the Celts had given Sabar something of a personal stake in their struggle. Berwyn, his host prior to Cadogan, had been a native of Tir Awyr and had offered himself willingly as host many years after Sabar had chanced to meet him and arrange his personal freedom from Bel. In the course of their early years together, Berwyn had managed to convince Sabar to openly aid his people in the rebellion they had already been considering since Berwyn's boyhood.

Not that it had been that difficult. Something of an idealist himself, Sabar had long chafed under the restrictions maintained by the Tok'ra High Council. Although he was widely regarded as a highly skilled and successful operative, he had also garnered a reputation as something of a firebrand over the past two or three hundred years — unusual, perhaps, for a Tok'ra firmly into his middle centuries, but Sabar was a being of independent mind and strong convictions, not unlike the queen Egeria herself had been. He supposed there were far worse things in life than to take after one's mother, especially when one belonged to a species and society wherein beliefs and attitudes were conveyed as much by genetic heritage as by any condition of one's own individual experience.

Being well aware that Egeria had been the first of her line to radically abandon the philosophy and practices of the System Lords and oppose them openly meant also acknowledging that his own Goa'uld ancestors were directly responsible for the harsh rule their kind had imposed on the galaxy, and the enslavement of humans and other beings under that rule. That made any action to alleviate this condition a debt of honor in its own right, as far as Sabar was concerned, even if it required more direct action than the Tok'ra generally engaged in. If the High Council were inclined to think otherwise, that was their problem. He and a small hand-picked group of like-minded friends had chosen to act according to the dictates of their own consciences, breaking with the Council and relocating to the fringes of Bel's domain, where they had made contact, via Berwyn, with the small cell of rebels on Tir Awyr who were all that existed at the time of what would eventually grow to become known as _Am Rhyddid_ , _Nar Fuasglaidh_ or _Air Sgàth Saorsa_ in the various languages of the five worlds ruled by Bel.

Since that time, they had aided the rebels as much as they could, given the scant resources the Tok'bel themselves were able to access. The need to maintain the rebel movement as a covert, clandestine affair for many decades in order to escape Bel's notice until it had grown large enough to be an effective force had required them to be very sparing with gifts of technology. Having high-tech tools and devices spring up here and there within his realm would surely have alerted Bel that something was afoot, and so while the Tok'bel had trained their human allies to use Tok'ra technology, they provided only limited quantities of items at first, collecting and stockpiling them over the years in a variety of locations for use when the movement reached critical mass. Indeed, some of the Celts already had some experience with Goa'uld tech captured or abandoned when Bel and his minions had lost control of his empire several centuries earlier, although they had no means of reproducing the devices and were therefore limited to simply using what they'd had on hand until Sabar and his companions had arrived on the scene.

Sefys, Sabar's second-in-command among the Tok'bel, looked up from his conversation with Kaldin as the glow from the _chappa'ai_ faded. Fully two-thirds of Sabar's friends had changed hosts since allying with the Celts, blending with humans from among the Pridani and other Celtic peoples as their previous hosts aged and eventually died. Kaldin was one of the few still blended with the same host he'd had when he first accompanied Sabar on this endeavor. Kaldin and Joron had blended only five years before Sabar had approached him about it, and Joron had been barely into adulthood at the time of their blending. Like the earlier, non-Celtic hosts of Sabar's other companions, Joron fully supported the Tok'bel effort to free an enslaved human group. He had been born and raised on a human-populated planet that was not currently ruled by a Goa'uld, but whose people were well aware of their existence and their cruelty.

Sefys, on the other hand, was one of the most recent among the Tok'bel to have partnered with a new host, a young Pridanic man by the name of Duthac who came from the district surrounding Dinas Coedwyg. Fascinated by the tales that Joron told from among his own people on a distant world, Duthac had become fast friends with Kaldin's host. That Sefys and Kaldin had themselves been good friends for about six centuries didn't hurt, and the two blended pairs often spent many of their off-hours in friendly conversation or in gaming, Duthac's dark head bent over a game board across from Joron's graying one.

Kaldin nodded once at Sabar and Cadogan. {"Welcome back,"} he said. {"How did your meeting with the Gallaeci go?"}

{"Well enough,"} Sabar responded, shrugging off the blue cloak he wore over his gray uniform. It might be approaching high summer in Tir Awyr's northern hemisphere, where its _chappa'ai_ was located, but the area surrounding Galla's gate was mired in late winter, and melting flakes of snow still clung to the dark wool. {"The mines there are still under-producing, not unusual for winter, but Bel's orbital shipyards have been under-capacity as a result of the lack of raw materials. They still haven't managed to repair or replace all the vessels our operatives damaged last year."}

Galla was one of the few worlds whose inhabitants Bel sometimes pressed into service as technical workers, albeit in limited roles. It was an unusual practice among the Goa'uld, yet Bel had engaged in it for quite some time. Galla's naquadah mines were among the richest in Bel's domain; not that this was saying very much, as the Five Worlds were rather poor in that metal and certain other resources compared to many other Goa'uld-dominated realms. This was part of why Bel was little more than a very minor player on the fringe of Goa'uld society. It also explained why the Tok'bel and _Am Rhyddid_ moved so slowly against him, however, as they were likewise hampered by the dearth of mineral resources. Both sides were drawing from the same limited pool. But Bel's decision to locate his shipyard in orbit around Galla offered the rebels the opportunity to infiltrate its staff, and they had done so, managing to sabotage elements of the Goa'uld lord's small fleet whenever they felt they could do so undetected. One such operation had resulted in the destruction of several vessels nearly a year ago, with damage to several more. To date, only a handful had been replaced or repaired and returned to service, a fact that cheered the Tok'bel leader and his human host, if cautiously.

 _I'll take summer over winter any day,_ put in Cadogan silently as Sabar shook melting snow from their hair. _I'm glad we got off-world before it started snowing any harder._

{I won't argue that with you,} Sabar replied, humor coloring his mental tone.

Sefys spoke up. {"We had a visitor while you were away, Sabar. Nasara brought word of unrest among the Council. I asked her to remain and speak to you herself, but she was on her way to an assignment and dared not delay."}

Nasara was another of Sabar's long-time friends. Fully sympathetic to the Tok'bel cause, she was nevertheless committed to the work the Council had her doing as well. Unlike Sabar, most of what she'd been sent to do over the past two centuries had borne more immediate and positive fruit, so that while she shared Sabar's philosophy favoring more direct action on the part of the Tok'ra against the Goa'uld, she at least was in a better position to make things happen even while doing them the Council's way than Sabar had been for quite some time prior to his break with them. She maintained that if or when that changed, she would join with the Tok'bel openly, but for the time being, she served as Sabar's eyes and ears among the main population of Tok'ra, especially those closest to the Council itself. Sabar found it incredibly useful to have someone like that in her position, and Nasara faithfully kept him and the other Tok'bel apprised of the news from among their more mainstream associates.

Although the Council highly disapproved of the Tok'bel's actions as potentially posing a danger to the Tok'ra if it were to bring retribution from the Goa'uld, thus far they had settled for simply expressing that disapproval but otherwise taking no action beyond keeping an eye on the situation. The fact that Bel was a very minor figure in Goa'uld society and politics was one safeguard, as was the fact that rather than completely abandoning the mainstream of Tok'ra efforts, Sabar and his colleagues still did what they could to gather information on the more minor players in Goa'uld politics and funnel it to the Council for inclusion in their overall intelligence picture. Still, Sabar was grateful for having a steady source of information on happenings at the level of the Council. The potential to have early warning of events within Tok'ra politics was only slightly less valuable than having them with regard to the Goa'uld, in his estimation.

{"Unrest? What sort of unrest, exactly?"} Sabar drew up a chair, laying the cloak over its back and sitting down with his colleagues.

{"Apparently, Garshaw of Belote and Selmak were seen disagreeing in public about the role of Tok'ra operatives in action on Goa'uld-dominated worlds. Nasara recounted a discussion between Garshaw and an operative called Lantash over the issue, and Selmak took Garshaw to task over it later."} Sefys pursed his lips. {"I know that Lantash and his host Martouf are mated with another operative by the name of Jolinar of Malkshur, and her host Rosha. Whether Jolinar and Garshaw knew each other personally before each turned from the Goa'uld and embraced Tok'ra values, I do not know, but there appears to be some variance of philosophy between them at present, as Nasara reports that when Jolinar attempted to defend Lantash to Garshaw, it required Selmak's intervention to quell the disagreement."}

Sabar cocked his head. {"This sounds like little more than idle gossip, Sefys."}

{"It might, if it hadn't occurred almost immediately after the conclusion of a Council meeting at which Lantash provided a report on efforts to curb Ra's power in the sector where he has been attempting to expand his control."} The speaker was Kaldin, his host's blue eyes harboring a look that Sabar hadn't seen in years. Kaldin, he recalled, had at one time been placed undercover by the Council at the court of Montu, one of Ra's client lords, to gather information. {"It was Nasara's turn as a Council runner, so she was present for most of the meeting. Lantash had just returned from Ra's domain, and while Nasara wasn't privy to everything he'd told the Council because she'd been sent out to retrieve something for one of the other members, she gathered that something major had occurred to shake up Ra's power base, Unfortunately, the Council appear divided as to how they should deal with the situation. It seems that Garshaw and Selmak are on opposite sides of the question, from what Nasara could tell."}

{"Did she think it could cause a schism in the Council?}

This time Sefys answered. {"She wasn't sure. Everyone knows that Selmak and Garshaw don't always see eye-to-eye, for all that they both tend to be fairly conservative about most things. It surprises me sometimes that Garshaw seems to be more so than Selmak. According to Nasara, Selmak appeared to take Lantash's side, at least to some extent, and Lantash isn't exactly known for his conservative tendencies when it comes to much of anything. Least of all how best to oppose the Goa'uld."}

Sabar considered this. Selmak, for all that she was of the First Brood and one of the eldest and most respected Tok'ra still living, did have moments when she broke with the rather staid and methodical mindset embraced by the majority of her broodmates. It was really too bad she didn't have more such moments, because then she might have seen eye-to-eye with him some fourteen decades ago and the Tok'bel might have been able to gain official support from the Council rather than having to break with them and with the main body of their peers in order to pursue the alliance with the Celtic rebels in Bel's domain. Of course, some of the friction between himself and Selmak at the time was partly owing to that between Selmak's host Saroosh and Berwyn, Sabar's host in those days. There was no glaring flaw in either human's personality, he reflected, but some people just managed to rub each other the wrong way no matter what they did, and for some reason this had been the case with Berwyn and Saroosh; enough so that it had affected interactions between their symbiotes.

Lantash, on the other hand, somehow managed to get on with both Selmak and Saroosh just fine, despite being nearly as volatile as Sabar knew himself capable of being. That this state of affairs obtained at present likely had much to do with Lantash's being blended with the rather easygoing Martouf, but Lantash's former host had exhibited no problems with them either. There were days when Sabar heartily wished he had been able to convince Lantash to join with the Tok'bel, for he knew that they did share at least some core elements of their philosophy and he considered him a friend. But Lantash had elected to remain in the service of the Council.

Garshaw, meanwhile, was someone that Sabar simply had never been able to completely fathom. A convert from among the ranks of Goa'uld military minds, rather than one of Egeria's offspring, Garshaw had come over to the Tok'ra at Belote, switching allegiances rather spectacularly in the midst of a pitched battle. Eager to prove herself — or himself, considering that his host at the time had been male — as a true adherent to their cause, Garshaw had set out to "out-Tok'ra the Tok'ra" in Sabar's opinion. It had clearly paid off, because Garshaw was now a member of the High Council.

However, while Sabar had no problem accepting the sincerity of Garshaw's convictions, there was little in the Councilor's philosophy or methodology to recommend itself to the Tok'bel leader. It seemed almost as if, despite abandoning the Goa'uld view that humans existed primarily to serve them and that it was the destiny of the Goa'uld to rule the galaxy, Garshaw retained a certain disdain for the abilities and intelligence of humans as a species, regarding them as generally too backward and primitive for anyone to really expect much out of them. How that view affected relations between Garshaw and his or her host at any given time was something Sabar preferred not to contemplate, although he felt a certain sympathy for any human desperate enough to blend with a being who might then regard that human as an inferior partner. He had no proof that Garshaw viewed her current host that way, but he couldn't help his concern. Although Yasuuf certainly appeared capable of holding her own. Perhaps it simply required a certain type of person to partner with a being like Garshaw, he supposed.

 _To be honest, Sabar, I think it quite likely takes a certain type of person to blend with any Tok'ra,_ Cadogan informed him. _For all that you hold some very strong opinions and aren't afraid to take action on them, I get the impression that you may be one of the more relaxed Tok'ra in existence. Even so, if I hadn't been accused in my youth of being a bit more strong-willed than was strictly good for me, I doubt that you and I would have as equal a partnership as we do._

Sabar chuckled inwardly. His host did have a point. Cadogan had been something of an impetuous youth, not terribly unlike his great-great-grandnephew Ris. As strong-willed and undeniably intelligent young men, needing only life experience or the guidance of a good mentor to temper them, each had been something of a trial to their families while on the cusp of adulthood. Ris was currently well in hand under Neirin's tutelage, in much the same way that a youthful Cadogan had found in Berwyn a mentor of his own. In Cadogan's case, that had led years later to his becoming Sabar's and Berwyn's aide, and eventually, Sabar's host. {You may be right,} the symbiote agreed, allowing affection to color his tone. {The entire time you were dressing down Ris after he went after those Jaffa last year, all I could think of was a certain young man I knew a bit over a century ago who might not have hesitated to take similar action had he been in your nephew's shoes.}

 _As I recall, you reminded me of that while I was in mid-lecture, too. Has anyone ever told you that your timing stinks?_ Cadogan's retort was couched in affectionate tones of his own. After eighty years as a blended pair, the two of them enjoyed a relaxed relationship that involved a large measure of good-natured teasing of the sort that might be expected between any set of best friends, whether or not they inhabited a single body.

Their private, internal exchange was interrupted by Kaldin. {"Nasara said that Lantash seems to think there might be an uprising soon, on one or more of Ra's worlds. If that happens…"}

Sabar nodded, picking up the thread of where his friend was going. {"That could destabilize his empire for a while, and keep him busy. It might even allow some of the other System Lords to take advantage of his distraction and move in on some of his territory. At the very least, it would shake up the power balance. Those are all things the Tok'ra have been working for. So what's Garshaw's problem?"}

{"I wish I knew."} Sefys, this time. {"Although apparently Lantash said something about direct aid toward supporting any rebellion, and that's where Garshaw laid down the law. Selmak, too, although in a slightly more diplomatic fashion, and afterward she did get Garshaw to back off when she was criticizing Lantash and Martouf outside of Council time."}

{"How soon do Martouf and Lantash think any uprising might take place? Or didn't they say?"}

Sefys shook his head slightly. {"A really rough estimate says maybe sometime in the next five years, according to what Nasara overheard. Maybe sooner."}

{"And in the meantime, the Council will probably be watching us like a hawk, looking for a chance to point out all the reasons why directly aiding human rebels is a dangerous idea,"} mused Sabar aloud. {"No wonder Nasara felt she should warn us. Although given last year's success in sabotaging Bel's fleet, and the fact that there has been almost no retaliation since then either to that or to most of the other things we've been doing, if it's examples of problems the Council are after, they may be hard-pressed to find them. With any luck, it will stay that way."}

{"One hopes,"} agreed Kaldin. He watched Sabar curiously for a moment. {"I know that look, Sabar. You're thinking it may be time to pay a visit to Rak'lar, aren't you?"} Rak'lar was currently the home of the largest Tok'ra base, and the location where the High Council met. The base had only been there for six years, and Sabar had been there but once.

The Tok'bel leader smiled. After fourteen centuries of acquaintance, Kaldin knew him almost too well. {"It may at that, but I'll want to wait until I've dealt with a few other things first, and possibly gotten the chance to talk with Nasara myself. Did she say when she might come this way again?"}

Sefys answered. {"One month from today, if all goes well on her mission."}

{"One month, then."} Sabar nodded. {"I'll make certain to be here. And with any luck, we'll soon have some positive results that neither Selmak nor Garshaw can criticize. Let the Council chew on that."}


	25. A Distant Thunder

"Nenniaw, a word?" Cadogan leaned over the porch rail and beckoned to his kinsman, who sat polishing a metal buckle in the late-afternoon sunshine.

The team leader looked up and nodded, laying aside the buckle and cloth. "Certainly." He gestured toward the neighboring chair. "Please, join me."

Cadogan mounted the porch steps of Nenniaw and Blodwen's neat frame house and took a seat. It was a very warm day, and he pulled at the neckline of his short-sleeved blue linen tunic, hoping for a breeze. Normally, weather quite this hot and humid didn't arrive until a couple of weeks after midsummer, but this year it had appeared somewhat early, as midsummer was still a week away. The _cadlywydd_ suspected that the real reason why today's heat felt stifling was due to the stillness of the air. He had already rolled up his pantlegs a couple of turns, and as he sat, he slipped off the light sandals he wore. Still, there was no escaping the heat. _Dignity be damned; what I'd like most right now is a swim in the river,_ he commented silently to Sabar.

{I wouldn't complain,} remarked the symbiote. {It would save me the trouble of trying to keep us comfortable.}

 _That doesn't seem to be working so well at the moment._

{That's because it isn't. Let's get this conversation handled and go have that swim. Better yet, why not invite Nenniaw to swim with us, and talk there?}

 _You try it, and see what happens._ Cadogan chuckled inwardly. Nenniaw was far more reserved about such things than the _cadlywydd_ , and both Cadogan and Sabar knew it. _You'd think he could unbend enough to come along if we're going to do it, but he's a lot more worried about his image than I am about mine._

{You hang about with nice, sensible Tok'ra who have more important things to be concerned with, that's why. Anyway, forget I asked. Let's get on with it, then.}

Cadogan watched as Nenniaw ran his fingers through his sandy, sweat-damp hair, then picked up the cloth he'd been using on the buckle and mopped his brow. A man in his mid-forties, just slightly shorter than Cadogan, he had a lean wiriness and a quick — some would say brusque — manner when dealing with subordinates, although he was always cordial with the _cadlywydd_ , who was not only his superior but also his cousin, if at several removes. Nenniaw had been _filwriad_ of the local _Am Rhyddid_ unit in Llanavon for several years, the only officer of that rank in the village until last autumn, when the rebel movement had begun to gather momentum and personnel. Now Llanavon was home to five smaller units of a dozen personnel each, organized as fast strike teams, along with numerous support personnel and some with more specialized functions, such as Tesni. The strike teams were led by Nenniaw, his brother Dynawd, Celyn, Neirin and a woman named Aeronwy. Each held the rank of _filwriad_ , although in Cadogan's absence, Nenniaw had seniority, as first among equals.

That was what Cadogan had come to talk to him about. Since drawing Neirin into his cadre of local officers last autumn, the _cadlywydd_ had come to realize that the off-worlder possessed certain skills and training that went far beyond that of any Pridanic officer in the movement, in terms of variety of experience if nothing else. He had figured this out over months of spending time with Neirin, getting a feel for how his mind worked without asking too many overt questions, and also by watching him in action, both in training and in the field. As Cadogan had become acquainted with something of the scope of his new friend's abilities, he had come to rely increasingly upon him as a resource not only for Neirin's own team, but for at least the Pridanic element of the _Am Rhyddid_ as a whole. Cadogan regularly detailed him to help train officer candidates and even bade him advise otherwise seasoned officers on occasion. Neirin willingly obliged, under the guise of having honed his skills elsewhere in the movement, before being brought to the district surrounding the _cadlywydd_ 's headquarters at Dinas Coedwyg. No one questioned his cover story, and the local _filwriadau_ in the district were happy to have his assistance.

But Nenniaw, Dynawd and Celyn were among that group of people who knew the cover story for the fiction that it was, and while Cadogan had heard not a whit of complaint from any of them, he had become increasingly aware of how things might appear to them. To Nenniaw in particular, as he had long held the highest position in the Llanavoni contingent and enjoyed his cousin's confidence. Cadogan wanted to make certain that he did not feel slighted by the position that Neirin had come to occupy in Cadogan's own orbit, nor by the trust the _cadlywydd_ placed in him. Not that Neirin had in any way eclipsed or supplanted Nenniaw, but the fact that a newcomer had found favor so quickly when compared to Nenniaw's years of service to the _Am Rhyddid_ was unlikely to go completely unnoticed.

As Cadogan opened his mouth to speak, Nenniaw picked up the buckle again, turning it in his hands. "It seems I'm to have some new tack tomorrow," he commented. "Aled mentioned to me today at lunch that his wife Glesig has been making straps for some new gadget that Dubric wants to attach to saddles and have us try out — something you told Neirin to have him make? Apparently Neirin said I was to have the first set of whatever it is. I'll admit I'm intrigued."

The _cadlywydd_ closed his mouth for a second, nonplussed. {Well, there's a problem that may be on the way to solving itself,} commented Sabar.

 _I'll give Neirin credit; he seems to be a step ahead here,_ responded Cadogan silently. They were both aware that Neirin knew Nenniaw's position in Llanavon; had known it since arriving. Clearly, he'd also picked up on the fact that his own meteoric rise to favor in Cadogan's eyes might have the potential to lead to friction despite none having been visible thus far, and was taking action of his own to head it off.

Aloud, the _cadlywydd_ said, "They're an invention from his homeworld, meant to make mounting and riding easier. _Gwrthaflau_ , he calls them. He just explained the idea to me a few days ago, and I told him to have several sets made so that we could try them out. It sounds like he's chosen to give you the first chance at that." He smiled at Nenniaw. "I didn't specify; in fact I rather expected the first three to go to Neirin, Gerlad and myself."

Nenniaw raised an eyebrow. "Aled said that Glesig had been asked to make four sets of straps for these _gwrthflau_ , whatever they are, and make alterations to several saddles."

Sabar chuckled silently. {Only one step ahead, Cadogan?}

His host responded with a mental chuckle of his own. _Clearly not. Neirin's taken matters into his own hands here. I like to see initiative in my officers._

Nenniaw watched Cadogan's face with the look that said he could tell that his cousin was conferring with the symbiote. "What's on Sabar's mind?"

Cadogan grinned. "Nothing much, except to say that he looks forward to these himself. I think you'll like them, Nenniaw. You have to admit, Neirin's had a few good ideas." He said the last intending it as a probe of the other man's attitude.

Nenniaw simply nodded. "He has. I wasn't sure what to make of him when he first showed up, but he's definitely become an asset."

There was no trace of jealousy, animosity or anything else untoward in the _filwriad'_ _s_ tone, and Cadogan prepared to dismiss the matter.

The sound of running footsteps reached them, and both men looked up to see Crinan, one of the _Am Rhyddid_ 's couriers, racing pell-mell down the street toward Bennaeth House. Cadogan rose, leaning over the porch railing to call out, "Crinan, ho! Over here!"

The young man changed direction at a dead run and fairly flew up the porch steps to stop, red-faced and gasping, before the _cadlywydd_ _._ "Sir," he panted, in the lilting Alban accent, "I've just come from Emhain by way of Caer Ynys. There's been an attack at Rath Tulach, near the mines at Clachnabein. A force of thirty Jaffa, under the command of what appeared to be a Goa'uld leader — not Bel, thank goodness, but one of his underlings — took control of the fort and executed the mayor of the town and the mine captain."

Nenniaw looked at Cadogan, alarmed. "Were either the mayor or the captain directly connected with the local _Air Sgàth Saorsa*_ cell?"

The _cadlywydd_ responded, "No, thank goodness," at the same time Crinan answered, "No, sirs."

To Cadogan, the courier added, " _Cathmhilidh_ _*_ , the _ceannard*_ Fearghas from the Rath Tulach cell was away in Ros Mor at the time. I was with him, and we found Jaffa in control of the town and the fort upon our return. Fearghas bade me carry the news to you, and so I went to Caer Ynys. Duthac told me to seek you here."

{I knew things had been too quiet lately,} grumbled Sabar. {The mines on Galla have been producing below capacity all winter, but that's to be expected there, notwithstanding what we've been diverting. What of those on Emhain?}

 _Rath Tulach is in Emhain's southern hemisphere. They'll be entering autumn now, and won't have the season to blame. But I thought we'd agreed to leave the Clachnabein mine alone for the present, so as not to raise too much suspicion._ Cadogan stood, gesturing for Crinan to take his seat. "Nenniaw, get him something to drink, will you?"

The _filwriad_ nodded and disappeared into the house. Cadogan turned back to Crinan. " _Bach*_ , on what grounds were these executions carried out? Do you know?"

The young man swallowed and shook his head. "I've no idea, _cathmhilidh_. Almost as soon as the _ceannard_ learned of them, and of the Jaffa presence, he sent me off to report the news. Duthac and Sefys have called a meeting at Caer Ynys, and sent me on to tell you."

Nenniaw reappeared with a cup of water for Crinan, who took it gratefully. Turning to Cadogan, he asked, "I assume this means you'll be going to Caer Ynys straightaway?"

Cadogan nodded once. "Gerlad and I will leave within the half-hour. While we're gone, you're to call a meeting of the local _filwriadau_ and alert them and their units. Send someone to Dinas Coedwyg with the news as well, and my orders placing them on full alert. If things are heating up on Emhain, I want us to be prepared here, in case this is only the first move in a larger plan. Oh, and double — no, triple — the guard at the _chappa-ai_. If we do get an invasion force of Jaffa by that route, I'd like to at least have the chance of their not getting beyond the compass circle."

Crinan spoke up again. " _Cathmhilidh_ , shall I go with you to Caer Ynys?"

The _cadlywydd_ patted the courier's shoulder. "No, _bach_ ; you've done your duty for the moment. Stay here and bear witness to what happened when the _filwriadau_ meet, and then if you will, you may repeat it in Dinas Coedwyg. After that, it may be best for you to remain on Tir Awyr until we have a better idea what's happening. Unless Fearghas needed you back right away?"

"No, sir."

"Fine; then you'll remain here for now. Also, did the _Air Sgàth Saorsa_ take any action against the Jaffa?"

"No, sir; none while Fearghas and I were away, and on his return, Fearghas felt it best to await your orders. For now, they are simply keeping an eye on the situation."

"That's probably best, as I doubt we have enough personnel and resources in place at the moment to oust them if they have control of the fort." Cadogan abruptly slammed a fist against the porch railing, cursing in Tok'ra. " _Mai'tac!_ I knew something like this was probably coming, but Emhain was the last place I expected it to begin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * words in Alban, the Goidelic derivative used on Emhain, which is populated primarily by the descendants of ancient Scots and Picts:
> 
>  _Air Sgàth Saorsa_ \- "for the sake of freedom"; means the same as _Am Rhyddid_ , and is their name for the rebel movement
> 
>  _Cathmhilidh_ – "War Chief"; means the same as _cadlywydd_ , and sounds very similar
> 
>  _Ceannard_ – can mean "chief" or "colonel"; in a military context it means "colonel" and is equivalent to the Pridanic term _filwriad_
> 
>  _bach_ – "small"; often used as a term of endearment or as a diminutive. Cadogan uses it here in exactly the same way as General Hammond might use "son" in speaking to someone like Daniel. The equivalent term used in addressing a female would be _fach_.


	26. A Gathering Storm

_It is only the enlightened ruler and the wise general who will use the highest intelligence of the army for the purposes of spying, and thereby they achieve great results._ — Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

 

Cadogan and Gerlad stepped through the _chappa’ai_ , exiting a moment later into the welcome coolness of Caer Ynys. _Ah, that’s much better,_ Cadogan commented, in a relieved tone. The temperature within the Tok’bel base was markedly more comfortable than the sweltering heat wave that Llanavon was experiencing. Next to them, Gerlad mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

{Indeed it is,} agreed Sabar. {All in all, though, I wasn’t so desperate to cool down that I wanted to have to come here and deal with a crisis. I’d still have rather had that swim.}

Sefys was present in the arrival chamber, and inclined his head in greeting. {“I took the liberty of calling a meeting as soon as Crinan reported what occurred on Emhain,”} the Tok’bel second informed him. {“I have also taken steps to make contact with our operatives among Bel’s court and his military.”} The Tok’bel had infiltrated Bel’s hierarchy decades earlier, and currently had several operatives in deep cover at various levels, including one or two quite close to the Goa’uld lord and functioning on occasion as advisors.

Cadogan nodded, ceding control to Sabar, who said, {“Have you had word from any of them?”}

{“Not yet, although our messengers only went out perhaps two hours ago. I imagine it may take some time.”} Sefys fell in beside Sabar as the Tok’bel leader began striding down the tunnel that led toward his quarters, Gerlad following a step or two behind. {“I’ve also sent messengers to Arverenem, Galla and Bohan to contact Tok’ra personnel on those worlds and recall them for this meeting. I expect we should see arrivals beginning sometime in the next hour.”}

{“Very well,”} said Sabar. {“We’ll convene when enough have arrived so that details should only need to be gone over once or twice. Make it two more hours, I’d say. In the meantime, I’m going to have a bath and then review recent intelligence reports. If any of our deep cover operatives should arrive or send word, come and get me immediately.”}

 

***

 

Cromwell fidgeted uncomfortably as a drop of sweat traced a path between his shoulderblades. He reached for the mug of water that rested before him on the table and drank, glancing around at the flushed faces of the others in attendance. Having been alerted by Ris, whom Nenniaw sent as a runner to gather the _filwriadau_ , Cromwell had left off writing that week’s unit report and hastened to meet with Nenniaw and his other fellow officers to hear Crinan’s account of what had transpired on Emhain. They were not the only ones in attendance; word spread that something dire had occurred and by the time Nenniaw convened the meeting, Tesni and a number of other local personnel had gathered as well.

The first table was occupied by officers: Cromwell himself, Dynawd, Celyn, Aeronwy and Nenniaw listened as Crinan addressed those gathered. The young man fairly paced in the open space at one end of the communal dining shelter where the meeting had convened, recounting the events that had unfolded on Emhain. A table away, Tesni sat with Idris and Anwen. Cromwell caught her eye, saw the concern with which she absorbed Crinan’s account. It was likewise mirrored in her brother’s expression; Idris listened gravely as the courier told his tale.

As Crinan concluded, Aeronwy spoke up. She was a tall woman of about forty, dark-haired and grey-eyed, with a quick mind and a direct manner. Originally from Bren Argoed, she had come to Llanavon in the first influx of additional personnel that had followed the Jaffa attack not quite a year ago, and had been placed in charge of a strike unit around the same time as Cromwell had been put in charge of his own rebel team. Addressing Nenniaw, she asked, “What are our plans should a similar force of Jaffa and Goa’uld come here intent on the same sort of thing we just heard about?”

The senior _filwriad_ cleared his throat. “Well, for one thing, we should have far more warning than they had on Emhain. The _cadlywydd_ has ordered the number of personnel on guard at the compass circle tripled, from six to eighteen, and I’ve added two runners as well. If a force does come through the gate, the guard might have their hands full, but the runners will bring warning to us here and also to Dinas Coedwyg. We won’t be caught unaware.”

Aeronwy nodded, satisfied for the moment. Cromwell held up a hand. Nenniaw turned to him. “Neirin?”

“Do we know for sure whether the Goa’uld on Emhain are aware of the existence of a local rebel group? Is there any chance this could be related to that knowledge, or conversely, that they may in fact be unaware and that this attack came about for some other purpose entirely?”

Nenniaw turned to Crinan with a questioning look. The young man cleared his throat and spoke to Cromwell directly. “Sir, I couldn’t say for certain, but based on what I was told by eyewitnesses, there were several local officers of the _Air Sgàth Saorsa_ near the front of the crowd when the townspeople were ordered to gather and watch the executions. Yet none of the invaders even so much as glanced at them.”

The colonel absorbed this. “Uh-huh,” he said. Turning back to Nenniaw, he asked, “That almost makes me think they had no knowledge of the presence of rebels in the settlement. What I worry is that finding a large armed contingent on guard at the stargate could serve to alert anyone coming through that there is something to be concerned about here. We could be tipping them off to our presence when they might otherwise be ignorant of it.”

Nenniaw shook his head. “I suspect they already know something is up here on Tir Awyr. Remember, we kept sixteen Jaffa, and whatever they’d been sent to obtain, from getting back to Bel last year. That alone is enough to tell him that his forces met with resistance.”

“True. Then again, in that case, why has there been no retaliation against us here? Other than the scheduled tribute days, we haven’t seen so much as a single Jaffa, and the ones who did come to collect tribute acted like there was nothing out of the ordinary.” Cromwell remembered the two occasions, built into the Pridanic calendar as holy days when offerings were made, upon which a small force of Jaffa had appeared and accepted tribute with much ceremony, bearing loads of naquadah ore and other items away through the stargate. On those two days, the guard contingent placed in the compass circle had been altered slightly in number and composition so as to appear to be nothing more than the ceremonial honor guard that had always been on hand to welcome the servants of their god. Both times, the Jaffa had come, led by Setak, Bel’s first prime, accepting the “offerings” in the name of their lord, and then bearing them away without even a hint that they suspected anything untoward. Cadogan and Sabar had insisted that appearances of normalcy be kept up as long as possible so as to defuse any suspicions on the part of Bel or his people, but Cromwell was more than a little surprised that the tactic had worked. Based on what Cadogan had told him privately, the _cadlywydd_ was a bit surprised as well.

“That’s a very good question, and I intend to bring it up with Cadogan when he returns, but for the moment we’ll keep an augmented guard at the gate. You may wish to bring up your own concerns with him as well, and I’ll be interested to hear his response,” Nenniaw told him, nodding. Glancing up and down the table, he asked his officers, “Does anyone else have questions?” There were none, and he turned to the rest of the assemblage. “Anyone else?” A chorus of mutterings met his words, but no one spoke up.

The meeting adjourned a few moments later, with instructions for all personnel not scheduled for guard duty to remain on alert. Nenniaw expected Cadogan back sometime in the evening, he said, and would likely convene another meeting of his officers at that time, to provide updates.

Nenniaw sent Celyn off to Dinas Coedwyg with Crinan, to repeat there essentially the same meeting that had just concluded. The remainder of the Llanavoni contingent filtered out of the dining shelter in threes and fours, conversing quietly. Tesni came to join Cromwell as he finished giving some instructions to Armagil and sent the young man off to complete his assigned tasks.

“Something just doesn’t feel right about this whole thing,” she murmured.

“You’re telling me,” he agreed. “I hope your uncle is able to bring more information when he comes back from Caer Ynys. The situation just doesn’t make sense. Why would almost three dozen Jaffa and a Goa’uld show up on Emhain out of the blue, execute two people with no reason given, and then hunker down in place, doing nothing? And why would the disappearance of twenty-six Jaffa here almost a year ago cause no discernible reaction? Something very strange is going on.”

 

***

 

Sabar looked up and down the table at the assembled Tok’bel operatives. {“Say that again,”} he said to the tall, swarthy figure who had spoken.

A little more than two hours after his arrival at Caer Ynys, the Tok’bel leader had convened a meeting of all the operatives who had thus far returned to the base, including those who had come from the Celtic worlds of Arverenem, and Galla. Perhaps the most surprising attendees, however, were two operatives from Bohan who had not been to Caer Ynys personally in quite some time. Sholan and Jiru had spent years deep undercover in Bel’s inner circle, beginning under the guise of minor functionaries and rising to the point where each now served on occasion as an advisor to the Goa’uld lord. They would return to their cover identities and positions upon the conclusion of this meeting. Sabar knew he was fortunate that his messenger Talar — also under cover of a secret identity by which he was known to the Goa’uld in Bel’s domain and therefore able to move more or less freely among them — had been able to make contact with the pair so quickly, and that they had been able to slip away to Caer Ynys for a few hours.

Sholan shook his head. {“I’m serious. Bel believes the rebel movement to be defunct. Moreover, he believes it has been that way for several years. Our disinformation campaign has been more successful than we’d expected.”}

{“Then who does he blame for the sabotage of six ships at Galla last year?”} Sabar wanted to know.

Jiru fielded the question. {“Bel does have enemies among the Goa’uld. He believes that one or more of them may be working against him, desirous of taking over his territory. Possibly his captor from the time of the Interregnum, or at least an ally, but he also suspects one of his own offspring. Enough of them briefly ruled their own little fiefdoms around that time, after all, and he fears that one or more of them may have designs on regaining old territory, or possibly his entire domain.”}

Sabar gave Jiru an appreciative look. {“You planted that idea in his mind to deflect suspicion from us?”}

Jiru shook his head. {“No, the suspicion is all his own. We simply played upon it and encouraged it.”}

{“Either way, I’m impressed.”}

Sholan spoke again. {“Bel has something of a suspicious nature when it comes to certain other Goa’uld, Sabar. It is merely fortunate that we’ve been able to turn that to our own purposes.”}

{“Highly fortunate, I’d say,”} Sabar agreed. {“At the very least, it explains why the force that went to Emhain appears completely oblivious to the presence of the local rebels at Rath Tulach. Who is the Goa’uld in charge of them, and for what purpose was the attack carried out?”}

Sholan’s expression grew concerned. {“I have no information regarding that at all, I’m sorry to say. Until our messenger contacted me, I was completely unaware of such an occurrence.”}

He glanced at Jiru, who shrugged. {“Nor was I aware of it,”} stated the other operative.

Sabar drummed fingers on the table, a habit he’d picked up from his host. {“See what you can find out,”} he said. {“I’ll have Talar remain on Bohan, in the city outside of Bel’s palace, so that you may contact him when you know something.”} Bohan was the world where Bel had made his home since returning to reclaim the Five Worlds not quite three centuries previously, after a five-hundred year absence that was still not fully explained.

Sholan and Jiru inclined their heads. {“As you wish,”} Sholan intoned, echoed by his colleague.

{“One more thing, while I have you here,”} said Sabar. {“What can you tell me of Bel’s reaction to the loss of twenty-six Jaffa on Tir Awyr last year?”}

His operatives shared another confused look. Jiru turned to Sabar. {“We have no knowledge of that event. Perhaps you could enlighten us?”}

 _All right, now_ I’m _confused,_ Cadogan commented silently.

{It isn’t just you,} his symbiote told him. Aloud, Sabar said, {“Nearly eleven months ago by Tir Awyr’s calendar, twenty-six Jaffa came through the _chappa’ai_. They broke into squads, with some attempting to abduct children and youth from at least one nearby village while a group of eight headed for the mines. _Am Rhyddid_ forces engaged them, and all twenty-six were neutralized. Are you telling me that this escaped Bel’s notice, or merely yours?”}

Sholan spread his hands, his expression baffled. {“Forgive me, Sabar, but I truly have had no information on any of this. How certain are you that they were actually Bel’s Jaffa?”}

{“They were marked with the sign of the ram’s horns upon their foreheads, and wore the armor of the ram. If they were not in service to Bel, then they were cleverly disguised to appear as though they were.”} Sabar stood, leaning forward with his hands upon the table. {“Who else might they have served, if not Bel himself?”}

Sholan looked uncomfortable. {“It appears that Bel’s concern with regard to a rival may not be entirely without foundation.”}

Sabar fixed him with an intense look. {“Go on,”} he invited.

Sholan’s discomfort increased visibly. {“You understand that until now this was only rumor, with virtually nothing to support or confirm it, but Bel’s suspicions center on one potential rival in particular: Lord Moccas, one of his own offspring. Moccas held Arverenem briefly after the coup that deposed Bel nearly eight centuries ago and brought about the Interregnum. Rumor has it that after abandoning Arverenem, he attached himself to the court of another low-level Goa’uld lord and found favor there, hoping to be given control of more than one or two planets of his own. Supposedly, he has not been given the sort of holdings he feels he deserves, and has turned a jealous eye toward his father’s domain. This was the rumor which formed the basis for our disinformation project, in which we deflected blame for recent blows against Bel away from our own movement and onto an external enemy… but we honestly thought it no more than baseless gossip, fueled by Bel’s own distrust of his offspring since the coup.”}

{“And now?”}

Jiru added his own thoughts. {“Moccas is said to have his own corps of loyal Jaffa, and may well have the means to mount small incursions into Bel’s territory, but until now we didn’t think he had the motivation. Perhaps we were wrong.”}

Sabar took his seat again. {“So you’re suggesting that the Jaffa we killed on Tir Awyr may not have been Bel’s at all?”}

Sholan nodded. {“It would explain why no one close to Bel was aware of the loss of any Jaffa in action.”}

{“Hmmm. I suppose their armor could have been altered, and their tattoos as well, to make it appear as though they were in Bel’s service.”} The Tok’bel leader’s expression turned thoughtful. {“If Moccas has his own people operating right under Bel’s nose, that could even explain what’s happening on Emhain. The question then becomes: what do we do about it, and is there a way to turn it to our advantage against Bel without running the risk of any of the Five Worlds actually falling under Moccas’ control?”} It was a longstanding tactic of the Tok’ra to play one Goa’uld against another, as a means to preventing any of them from gaining too much power. While Sabar had long ago grown tired of this as a primary means of action against their enemy, he nevertheless understood that it could be a useful tool in the fight to wrest control of the Celtic worlds from their overlord. If Bel and Moccas could be made to weaken one another, it might be possible for the _Am Rhyddid_ and the Tok’bel to defeat both.

He outlined this thought process to his operatives. {“I want to investigate this possibility as fully as we can,”} he instructed them. {“We may have just discovered the weapon we need.”}

 

 


	27. A History Lesson

_Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall_. — Confucius

 

 

Torchlight bathed the common patio and night insects sang in the forest beyond the village. At least the sweltering heat of day had dissipated somewhat, Cromwell reflected, although it was still far from cool and the humidity remained. The weather reminded him of Florida during his time at Hurlburt Field, or perhaps of Nicaragua.

Having left just after midday, Cadogan had returned to Llanavon as night fell. As expected, he'd called a meeting of his officers upon his arrival. Cromwell and his fellow  _filwriadau_ , their number once again augmented by many others in the village, had gathered to hear what news the  _cadlywydd_  might have brought.

The leader of the  _Am Rhyddid_  stood near the center seat of the head table occupied by his officers, his grey uniform tunic partway undone in deference to the muggy air. He had just finished outlining the latest intelligence from Emhain. Just before he'd left Caer Ynys to return to Tir Awyr, another messenger had arrived at the Tok'bel base, carrying word that the mysterious Goa'uld — who gave his name as Apri, which to Sabar's knowledge and that of the other Tok'bel was not a name associated with any of Bel's current underlings — and his Jaffa had left almost as precipitously as they had arrived, taking with them the stores of naquadah ore that had been brought from the mines since the last tribute and put aside for Bel. "It appears there are additional factors at work here," Cadogan told those assembled. "For one thing, eyewitness accounts say that none of the occupation force seemed to have any awareness that there might be a rebel cell in the vicinity. For another, Sabar's Tok'ra operatives close to Bel himself report that he believes our movement to have died out several years ago." The  _cadlywydd_  gave a sly grin. "Apparently, the disinformation program he instructed them to put into practice has borne far greater fruit than anticipated."

Nenniaw spoke up. "Then who does he think took his Jaffa out of circulation here last summer, Cadogan?"

Cromwell glanced around the table, noting the perplexed expressions and nods of agreement from Dynawd, Celyn and Aeronwy.  _It would appear that Nenniaw's just asked the $64,000 question._

"That's the interesting part," replied the  _cadlywydd_. He went on to explain that two Tok'bel operatives had deflected blame for a number of  _Am Rhyddid_  actions in recent years onto a rival Goa'uld whom Bel suspected of having designs on his worlds. "That's why Bel is focused on Lord Moccas these days, and thinks we're a defunct organization and that the Tok'bel cleared off years ago. Of course, until now, we'd thought the original rumor of Moccas' interest was only that: a rumor, and nothing more. But according to our operatives, no word of what happened here last summer has ever reached Bel's ears, at least as far as they can tell, and they're in a position to know. Moreover, there was also no word at that level of any action being carried out against anyone on Emhain. These operatives now suspect that what they thought was mere rumor had its basis in actual fact." Cadogan scanned the faces of his officers. "It's probable that the Jaffa we killed weren't Bel's at all, but belonged to Moccas instead. And after his failed incursion here, he waited a while, and then went after resources on Emhain instead."

 _Great, so now we've got_  two  _Goa'uld we need to worry about?_  Somehow, the thought didn't make Cromwell feel any easier. Cadogan, on the other hand, seemed positively encouraged by it.

"As long as Bel continues to attribute our actions to efforts by Moccas to weaken his hold over his territory," the  _cadlywydd_  continued, "this misdirection should allow the  _Am Rhyddid_  and the Tok'bel to operate with relative impunity. So the trick here will be to play each of them against the other. Of course, the other side of the coin is that we'll need to know exactly how much strength Moccas himself is able to throw into his bid against Bel, because we don't want to exchange slavery under one false god for slavery under another. My guess, with which both Sabar and his council concur, is that Moccas most likely does not have a whole lot of resources to work with at present, or else we'd have seen a lot more out of him than we have thus far. In fact, that's probably why he's only staging brief raids to obtain naquadah and possibly a few slaves."

Cromwell spoke up for the first time in this meeting. "How sure are we that this is all he's done or will continue to do, and for how long?"

Cadogan turned to him. "The Tok'bel are going to attempt to place an operative within Moccas' organization, as they've done in Bel's, so that we can keep abreast of developments. Once we have intelligence on both sides, we may be able to use Bel and Moccas against one another." The  _cadlywydd's_  gaze swept the rest of the table. "In the interest of maintaining the illusion that our movement no longer exists, I'm going to discontinue the use of a heavy guard at the  _chappa'ai_. The last thing we want to do is have Bel or anyone loyal to him show up and find an armed force waiting that tips them off to the fact that the  _Am Rhyddid_  is still active. We've been lucky to avoid that, and if our guess is correct that Bel has placed the blame for our actions in recent years on his son instead, then I'd prefer to keep our continued existence a secret for a time, yet."

 _His son?_  Cromwell reflected that there clearly were details he still did not know regarding Bel's history with the Celtic worlds. He pushed the thought aside for the moment to focus on the rest of the meeting, vowing to find the answers he needed at his first opportunity.

From his own seat of courtesy next to Cadogan's, Idris spoke up. "Uncle, are you certain it's wise to leave the  _drws_  completely unguarded? We have no way of knowing who might pay us a visit, and it would be best to have at least some warning if what happened before occurs again." There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd beyond the head table. As the functioning chief of Clan Branoc, Idris was as much responsible for the well-being of the villagers as was Cadogan in his own twin roles as  _cadlywydd_  and as chief-in-fact, Cromwell knew.

Cadogan fixed his nephew and heir with a disappointed look. "You know me better than that, Idris. We'll still keep a guard in place, but well back into the forest, with scout lookouts posted on the periphery of the forest near the compass circle. The scouts will be close enough to see who comes through, when anyone does, and can send runners to alert both the guard and the village if necessary. That should provide ample warning to hide our children and the most vulnerable among us, but we'll take no further action to tip our hand unless it is warranted. I'm willing to exchange extra tribute — as long as it isn't human — for the ability to operate undetected and unpunished against Bel for as long as we can manage."

Idris inclined his head in acknowledgment. "My apologies, Uncle. I should have realized you would have an alternative plan."

After the meeting broke up, Cromwell sought out Tesni. Collecting a pitcher of ale from the tavern counter at one corner of the communal dining shelter, he led her back to the porch of his own cottage to talk privately. The latest two volumes Cadogan had loaned him included what the  _cadlywydd_  promised was comprehensive history of the Five Worlds from roughly a millennium ago to the present; however, the colonel had only had it in his possession for a couple of days and had not yet made time to read more than a few pages, having been occupied with other things.  _At this point, if Tesni can give me the Cliff's Notes version to start with, it'll at least help._

Pouring her a mug of ale before filling his own, he said, "It seems I'm in need of a history lesson, beyond what I've read in the books I borrowed from your uncle. What can you tell me about this Lord Moccas? Is he really Bel's son?"

Tesni nodded. "This goes back to something that happened long ago, Neirin, in an event known as the Wars of the Gods. You know that my people have been on Tir Awyr for over sixty generations, correct?" Cromwell nodded. The Pridanic calendar began with the establishment of the first settlement, although the earliest legends said that more people had arrived over many years after that, with the Albannu arriving last of all.

Seeing his nod, she continued. "Some of our sister worlds have been populated even longer by peoples that Bel brought from the  _Byd Cyntaf_  — the First World." Cromwell nodded again, not daring to tell her that he was very well acquainted with the  _Byd Cyntaf_  indeed.

By now, Tesni had warmed to her subject. "Nearly eight hundred years ago — in 1163 by our calendar, although it's different in the calendars of our sister worlds — some of Bel's offspring staged a coup, and overthrew him. For several centuries prior to that, he had placed various of them in charge of each of the Five Worlds, or sometimes divided a world into provinces, placing one of his sons in charge of each. When these offspring rose up against him, Bel and his queen vanished. No human knew for sure what had happened to them, and all assumed them to have been killed by their own children."

She paused to take a sip of ale before continuing. "Bel's offspring warred among themselves soon after that. Individually, or in one case as a pair, they fought to take control of the entirety of their father's domain. Bel's fleet of ships had vanished, and none of his offspring commanded a large enough army of Jaffa, nor of loyal humans, to wrest control from the others and maintain it for long. Bel's own armies had splintered, with different factions offering their allegiance to one or another of the offspring, but in the end none held enough power to gain or hold control over more than a portion of their father's domain."

"So they were fighting, but no one was winning in any real sense. Is that what you're saying?"

Tesni nodded. "Yes, and they did this for approximately twenty years. Eventually, each had been worn down enough that their own forces either turned against them or deserted them, even their Jaffa. The humans who had once served and worshipped Bel and his children as deities came to the conclusion that the 'gods' were in no wise divine, and abandoned them. Bel became known as 'the Deceiver' for having lied to his worshippers, his name an epithet in every language spoken among our tribes. Temples were destroyed, and the priests along with them. Soon, there came a point where no Goa'uld, not even the lowliest of them, were left among the Five Worlds. The knowledge of the use of the gates remained, however, in the hands of some of those who had once served our former overlords, and the tribal leaders utilized them for purposes of trade among our worlds. These five addresses were the only ones known, so no one ventured beyond our worlds, nor even was aware that there was anyplace else to go. But within Bel's former holdings, human culture found a chance to flourish far beyond what had been permitted under the reign of the Goa'uld."

Cromwell recalled some of the entries he'd read in the geography text he'd borrowed from Cadogan and used to familiarize himself with the written form of Pridanic. In light of what Tesni was telling him, many of the more confusing ones began to make sense. "It was during this time that human kingdoms began to spring up, then?"

"Yes, and sometimes they fought among themselves for power and control of resources. We have nearly five hundred years of history detailing these developments. But aside from the conflicts, this was also a fruitful time, during which much that is good was done. Cities and towns were built. Our peoples studied the universe around them to whatever extent they could, and learned as much of its nature as was possible. Science advanced, literature flourished, and many of our greatest works of art, music and theatre were created during those five centuries, which are known as the Interregnum."

 _It sounds almost like the Renaissance, in a way._  The colonel shook his head. "So where does Moccas fit into this? I gather he is one of the offspring who overthrew Bel?"

Another nod. "Moccas was originally in charge of the world of Averenem. He was the last to abandon Bel's old domain. We have had no idea where he or any of the other offspring went during this time, nor of what they did, of course. Not even the Tok'ra appear to know, or at least that's what Sabar says. If any do, they haven't shared that knowledge with him."

Cromwell found himself utterly captivated by Tesni's tale. A student of history for many years in his old life on Earth, he was fascinated by her account of the history of the worlds of Bel's domain. He had pieced together what he thought was a reasonable picture of how the Celts had gotten from Earth to these worlds, and roughly around what period in time, but he hadn't been able to ask too many questions regarding their history here, since to do so of anyone outside of Cadogan's inner circle would have blown his cover identity as a native Pridano. He could have asked Tesni or even Cadogan to tell him more at any time, he supposed, but he'd avoided doing so lest it lead to reciprocal questions regarding his own people's history, which was part of that parcel of things he was unwilling to discuss for fear of giving away too much information about his homeworld. Now, however, curiosity and what he suspected might soon be a genuine need to know — rather than a mere desire to do so — drove his questions.

He topped up her mug from the pitcher. "So this lasted for five centuries. What happened then? I know that Bel's capital is on Bohan, but how did he come back into power?"

"In 1672, word came to Tir Awyr that the Deceiver had returned to Bohan, and had taken control of the capital city of one of its kings, claiming still to be a god and that he had returned triumphant from the underworld. Few people actually believed him to be a deity, although a small number on Bohan did return to his worship after that. The cult of Bel has never really spread again among the five worlds, though, nor even done so widely on Bohan itself." Tesni paused to refresh herself from the mug. "The armies of the various Bohani kings and queens did abandon whatever quarrels they had with each other to fight against him, but he had armies of Jaffa with weapons like those the  _Am Rhyddid_  uses today, while human armies of the time had only swords, spears and simple projectiles. Bel also had ships that could cast fire from the sky, and soon retook the planet entirely."

Cromwell shuddered, imagining such a battle. Humans armed with little more than blades and spears, and probably bows or crossbows, up against Jaffa armed with  _ma'toks_  and  _zats_ , and backed up by air cover. 'Rout' was the mildest term he could come up with to describe it. Even if the Jaffa force was smaller than the human one, as was likely, the humans wouldn't have stood a chance.  _Throw in some P-90s and M-16s, with maybe a few well-placed explosives, and it might've been a different story…_

Tesni was speaking again. "The Deceiver still makes his home there, in the city of Arandesed, which means 'the high dwelling' in the language of Bohan. From there, he set about reclaiming the rest of the Five Worlds. It didn't take him long. Tir Awyr fell last, and some of the fighting occurred right here where we're sitting. Bennaeth Bod was a fairly new structure then, having been built when my eight-times-great grandfather, Branoc ap Gryg, was chief. Llanavon was smaller then, but more spread out, with the forest sparser and cut much farther back. Branoc lost sons and daughters fighting Bel's forces, but when it was over, the house still stood, and the core of the village around it." Her eyes grew steely. "Branoc ap Gryg vowed right then and there that if there were ever to come a day when the people of Tir Awyr and her sisters could throw off the Deceiver's yoke, his own kin would be among those who brought that about. The  _Am Rhyddid_  had its birth right here, among his own grandchildren."

The colonel blinked. "So that's why your entire family is involved. They're the ones who started it."

A voice came from the shadows. "Neirin?" Ris stepped onto the porch, bearing a lantern. "Oh, excuse me, Aunt Tesni."

"Did you need something, Ris?" asked Cromwell.

The youth shook his head. "Not really. I was just going to ask if you'd be interested in a game of chess, but I see that you're busy. I can come back another time." Ris sounded sincere, but his mentor detected a faint note of disappointment in his voice. Guiltily, he realized that he hadn't made much time for Ris beyond their martial arts sessions in several days.

Tesni must have heard it too, for she stood and stretched. "Neirin, I've monopolized you quite a bit lately. Why don't you have a game with Ris, while I go and finish some chores I didn't get done before my uncle returned? If I sit here talking with you much longer I won't complete them, but you can stop over when you've finished your game if you like." She flashed him a brilliant smile, gave him a swift kiss on the lips, and was off down the porch steps before he could respond, taking the ale cup with her. "You can collect this when you come to see me later," she said, grinning and holding it up as she turned at the bottom of the steps to walk up the street toward her own cottage.

Bemused, the colonel watched her go. After a moment, he shook his head and turned to find his protégé regarding him with an amusement, one eyebrow raised in unconscious mimicry of the expression he so often used himself.

"What?" he growled; or rather, tried to. He couldn't get quite the right note into it, nor school his face into the stern expression meant to accompany it.

The eyebrow climbed higher as the young man's amusement visibly increased. "Perhaps I should practice calling you 'Uncle' Neirin?" Ris nimbly ducked the half-hearted swat Cromwell directed toward him.

 _Sixteen-year-old smartass acts_  way  _too much like me._  "I thought you came here to play chess," said the colonel, hiding his own smile in the shadows as he turned to tug the small table holding the ale pitcher into a better position between the porch chairs. "Go and bring the chess set and a candle, and you may as well grab yourself a mug from the shelf while you're at it."


	28. Turning of the Wheel: Summer

_Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart._ — Marcus Aurelius

 

Cromwell finished adjusting the strap holding the left stirrup onto the dun gelding’s saddle. _Droeddu_ or “Blackfoot” was the horse he most often rode, and he’d instructed Glesig to alter Droeddu’ssaddle first, so that he could use it as a test bed for the new straps and stirrups Cadogan had ordered made after the colonel introduced him to the concept. He’d attached the first set to Droeddu’s saddle two days earlier and gone riding, returning after a couple of hours to thank both the blacksmith Dubric and Glesig the saddler for their efforts. “These are exactly right,” he told them. Glesig had immediately gone to work altering the saddles for Cadogan, Gerlad’s and Nenniaw’s mounts. A fourth pair of stirrups was being made for Tesni’s use, on Cromwell’s own request to the blacksmith, and Ris was carving two sets in wood for additional testing.

The colonel turned to Nenniaw. “See that?” he asked, gesturing toward the stirrup. “Now watch.” Placing his left foot into the stirrup, he swung up into the saddle with an easy motion.

Nenniaw nodded. “I can see where that’s helpful,” he agreed. “Mounting is definitely faster, especially without a block.”

“Absolutely. The ability to mount easily from the ground is a big help when you’re out and about.” Cromwell dismounted again, patting the gelding on the shoulder. Droeddu clearly couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about, but seemed content to stand still and let the colonel demonstrate the use of the new equipment.

Nenniaw’s customary mount, called _Lluched_ or “Lightning” for the narrow, irregular blaze the dark-coated creature bore on its forehead, snorted as Cromwell approached to check the stirrup straps newly installed on his saddle. The colonel murmured to the horse, patting the animal’s neck before adjusting the straps. A moment later, he stepped back. “Try it,” he told the other man.

Nenniaw imitated what Cromwell had done a moment earlier, mounting with only slightly less grace than his more practiced colleague. Cromwell moved in to readjust the straps slightly, setting the stirrups at a position likely to be more comfortable for the slightly shorter man. “”How does that feel?” he asked.

“Odd, but comfortable. I’m not used to having a place to rest my feet when I ride.”

Cromwell grinned. “I can almost guarantee you’ll get used to it pretty fast.” He swung back up onto Droeddu. “Let’s go test them out, shall we?”

The horses’ hooves kicked up dust as they made their way out of the village, taking the road that lead toward Bren Argoed. Cromwell planned on taking them just a couple of miles along this and a connecting trail that looped back to join the Dinas Coedwyg road just outside Llanavon — just far enough for Nenniaw begin to get a feel for riding with stirrups. While the main routes between places like Llanavon, Bren Argoed and Dinas Coedwyg were unpaved, along most of their length they were wide enough for several horses to travel abreast, or for two carts to pass one another, if carefully. The two riders traveled side by side, each man wrapped in his own thoughts, until Nenniaw broke the companionable silence in which they rode.

“Cadogan tells me these — _gwrthaflau_ , did you call them? — are an invention from your homeworld, Neirin.”

Cromwell nodded. “They are. They’ve been used there for centuries. When I first learned to ride as a child, I used them, and it was only after I’d mastered riding with them that I tried it without. Even so, that was only when I rode bareback. I find long rides with no place to put my feet rather tiring, although the horns that these saddles have are helpful for balance.”

Nenniaw nodded. “I can already feel a difference.” He was silent for a moment, before continuing, “You know, I almost never hear you talk about your homeworld. I have to admit I’m curious about it.”

Cromwell winced inwardly. He’d grown used to not being questioned regarding his origins, especially since taking a Pridanic name the previous year, not long after his arrival. Cadogan had made it clear to those under his command — which included, directly or indirectly, everyone in Llanavon who was acquainted with Cromwell — that their guest and fellow soldier desired to maintain his privacy. The _cadlywydd_ had explained that ‘Neirin’ had come to them from a community so distant that even the dialect spoken there was somewhat different, but that he enjoyed both Cadogan’s confidence and his hospitality, and was to be treated as anyone else who served the rebellion. If few had questioned him overmuch before that, out of politeness, none dared break the _cadlywydd_ ’s command by querying him as to his history and origins after that, especially once he had been promoted to the rank of _filwriad_.

Even in private, in the close company of what had become for all intents and purposes his family here on Tir Awyr, no one asked him about his origins or his past. By tacit agreement, the topic was left unremarked upon, except in those rare instances where the colonel himself brought it up, and then it was understood that he controlled the limits of the discussion. If anyone was bothered by his reticence, none had given voice to such a sentiment. From Cadogan himself all the way down to Ris and Tegwyn, everyone respected Cromwell’s privacy in the matter.

But he had to admit that bringing an Earth invention like the stirrup into local use was likely to raise questions. Nenniaw knew full well that Cromwell was not from Tir Awyr, and he had to have guessed, although the colonel had never told him, that he was not from any of Tir Awyr’s sister worlds, either. Cromwell knew he had the senior officer’s respect; after all, it had been Nenniaw himself who had originally recommended that Cadogan include him on that first offworld mission for the _Am Rhyddid_ , a mere week after his arrival. Likewise, Nenniaw seemed appreciative of Cromwell’s military expertise. However, now that he’d brought something tangible into the picture, an item heretofore unknown on the Five Worlds, the colonel supposed it was only natural that the other man’s curiosity might be spurred to the point where he would ask questions.

“Nenniaw, I really don’t want to talk about my homeworld too much. You understand security risks, I know.” Cromwell looked at Nenniaw, inviting a response. When it came, it was in the affirmative. Not, of course, that the colonel had expected any less from his fellow officer.

“Certainly I do.” Nenniaw gave him a puzzled look. “Your world is in so much danger that you think telling me about it might pose a threat?”

Cromwell shook his head. “It isn’t you, or anyone hereabouts. But your world and mine share an enemy in the Goa’uld, because both our peoples refuse to serve them any longer. I had an accident that caused me to wind up here, without a way to get home. That much you know from what I told Tesni when I arrived, since I know she told you what I said. And security on my own world is so tight that I don’t even know its gate address. Otherwise, I’d have gone home already.” He shrugged. “It’s a world not much different from this one, with people not terribly different from people here. Beyond that, there really isn’t much that I _can_ tell you that would mean much to you, so it seems like a pointless conversation to even begin.”

That last was partially a white lie, of course; the colonel did know one symbol that was supposedly unique to Earth, and that Earth had to be the planet from which the Pridani and the people of their sister worlds originated. But he had his own reasons for not sharing the information. “The accident that sent me here may have killed the other people who were with me, which would mean my people probably think I died, too. That means I’m not likely to get back there again anyway, so what’s the use in talking about it?” _Maybe that’ll get him to leave the topic be._ It wasn’t that Cromwell resented the questions; he just hated the fact that he didn’t dare answer them fully.

Nenniaw regarded him thoughtfully. “It must be difficult, living that way,” he said at last.

“It isn’t easy. Then again, if I’d wanted an easy life, I wouldn’t be on Tir Awyr. The average person on my world never travels via stargate, just like the average person on any of the Five Worlds doesn’t,” Cromwell told him. “You know me well enough to know that I’ve been in the military for a long time, and I’ll tell you right now that I chose to make it my career, when I could have done something else. I only got near my world’s gate because of my military role. Otherwise, I’d never have been in a position to wind up here at all.”

The senior _filwriad_ considered this for a moment. “Fair enough,” he allowed finally. “I will go so far as to say I’m not entirely sorry you did, though.” He glanced down, kicking one foot a bit in its stirrup. “These are a definite improvement.”

Cromwell chuckled. “Nice to know I’m good for something, anyway,” he said.

Nenniaw echoed the chuckle as the two of them turned onto the trail leading back toward Llanavon.

 

***

 

Tesni gave the floor a final sweep before propping the broom in a corner and turning to survey the communal kitchen. Everything was put away, things were nice and tidy, and the fire had been allowed to burn down to the level needed only to keep the water in the large kettle hot. Gelhi would keep an eye on it; tonight was his turn at fire-tending.

The sound of footsteps behind her made her turn. Neirin stepped through the doorway from the dining area to prop another broom next to the one she had just put away. “I think that’s everything,” he said. “You all done back here?” Of late, the two of them tended to volunteer for chores that allowed them to work together. Tonight it had been post-dinner cleanup, and they’d managed to finish early enough to catch the last hour or so of daylight. The fact that it was nearly midsummer helped, as the sun set quite late and rose very early this close to the solstice. Soon the march of daylight would reverse itself, the days growing shorter as the hours of darkness began once more to lengthen. It would still be some time before the nights were more than a handful of hours long, however.

Tesni had hoped to interest Neirin in a walk before sunset, but the smell of rain on the air indicated this might not be the best choice. The heat wave had broken today, with the hot and sticky weather of the past few days giving way to much more comfortable conditions, though it remained summery and warm. That the change in temperature appeared to herald the coming of rain was no great surprise; this was a fairly common occurrence in the area. But it meant they would have to find something else to occupy themselves this evening, before candle-time and then bed…

“I do believe that’s everything, _cariad_ ,” she said as she took his hand, noticing his smile at the endearment. She could remember a time when he rarely smiled. He’d seemed so serious and reserved during his early days in Llanavon that those occasions when she’d managed to tease an actual smile out of him had come almost as a surprise. Each one had been well worth the effort, though. Neirin’s smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds, and equally as welcome. These days he smiled much more readily, though Tesni found that she treasured the sight as much as she had when it was rare.

As they stepped out from beneath the roof of the shelter and began to cross the square toward the street where both their cottages lay, he glanced up at the sky, where gray clouds were moving in, their bellies tinged with gold from the westering sun. “It’s going to rain later, I think,” he commented.

“I’d be surprised if it didn’t,” Tesni told him. “I had thought of taking a walk, but when the clouds come from the southwest like this, rain often comes on suddenly. Is there something you’d like to do instead?”

He shook his head. “Almost anything’s fine with me. A game, perhaps, or some reading?” Besides the history book that Cadogan had loaned him, Neirin’s current borrowings from the _cadlywydd_ ’s library included a novel by a contemporary author whose work both Tesni and her uncle enjoyed, and Neirin had taken to reading a chapter aloud in the evenings, both to entertain himself and her and to hone his recently-acquired reading skills.

“Reading, please,” she said with a smile.

Deciding to amuse themselves at Tesni’s cottage, they detoured to Neirin’s to retrieve the book and close the shutters against the coming rain. Once inside her own dwelling, Tesni poured cider for them both as Neirin lit a lamp against the approaching dusk, placing it on the side-table next to the cushioned settle. Sunset might be nearly two hours away, but with rain clouds moving in, it could easily get dark long before then. Setting his cup next to the lamp, she watched as he smothered the char-cloth and tinder in the small tin box before replacing the fire-steel and flint. Finally satisfied that all was in order, he sat down with one leg stretched along the settle’s broad seat, his back against a cushion at its end. Tesni joined him, tucking both legs up onto the cushion and leaning against him as he opened the book, steadying it on his other knee with one hand as he began to read. She always found his deep, resonant voice soothing as he read aloud at the end of a busy day, and loved to listen. Tonight, resting against his chest, she felt the words as well as hearing them.

When he reached the end of the chapter and closed the book, she shifted position, turning toward him and lifting her face to his for a kiss. He readily obliged, still holding the book. After a moment, she took it from him, setting it on the side-table before kissing him again as both of his arms went around her.

 

***

 

Tesni stretched languorously, her toes exploring a cool patch among the bedcovers as she drifted awake after a few moments’ drowsing. There was still light in the room, although it was waning, and she turned to study the dozing figure next to her. Not long after Neirin had finished reading to her in the cottage’s front room, Tesni had found herself being lifted and borne, laughing, into her bedchamber where he’d deposited her on the bed and made it clear what else he would like to do with the rest of the evening. Not that she’d had any objection…

She remembered again that first night Neirin had spent in Llanavon, on a pallet on the floor in her front room. It had taken her some time to convince him to lie down and sleep, despite his obvious exhaustion. He had clearly been keyed up from his encounter with Ris and the subsequent session with Nenniaw, but by the time she’d gotten him back to her cottage, he’d begun to tremble, the way one often did after a stressful event. His face had been pale, nearly gray with fatigue, only the amber glow of the candle-lamp lending him color. Yet still he’d fought to remain awake, asking her questions, unaware even of the bits of straw stuck in his hair. She’d plucked the pieces out, as she spoke whatever soothing words she could think of that might calm him enough to rest. All of them true, though; she wasn’t one to dole out empty platitudes.

Finally, he’d stood, swaying, and made his unsteady way to the pallet in the corner, as much falling as lying down when he got there. He’d been nearly asleep by the time she’d gone to extinguish the candle, but just as she was about to blow it out, a cool breeze from the window gave her pause, bringing again the smell of rain that she’d noticed on their way back to the cottage. It was far too late in the night to lay a fire, not to mention that she had no desire to disturb her guest now that he had finally gone to sleep, so she’d settled for pulling a spare blanket from the chest in the bedroom and carrying it out into the front room to cover him.

As she’d knelt over the stranger’s sleeping form, preparing to tuck the blanket around him, his breath had caught suddenly and he’d mumbled something. His brow, which had relaxed in sleep, furrowed in response to whatever dream he was having. He mumbled again, the words indistinct, but Tesni was sure they weren’t in whatever language he’d used during their earlier conversations. He mumbled a third time, his tone clearly one of discomfort. Concern? Fear? Pain?

A fragment of memory had drifted up from her past as she moved to cover him: Eogen, in the grip of uncomfortable dreams after returning from some mission for the _Am Rhyddid_. Like Eogen and like herself, this man too was a soldier, and while Tesni counted herself fortunate to have not yet encountered anything so horrible as to invade her dreams on a regular basis — with the exception of her parents’ deaths at the hands of Bel’s Jaffa, about which she occasionally did dream — she knew well enough that such things were not uncommon, whether among soldiers or, really, anyone who’d encountered trauma enough.

The stranger had shifted in his sleep, mumbling again. Some reflex made Tesni reach out, brushing away yet another piece of straw and then smoothing his hair, her hand lingering for a brief moment on his head, the way one might soothe a small child. He shifted again, his face relaxing somewhat, and she could tell by his breathing that he’d drifted deeper, beyond the level of dreams. She’d spread the blanket over him then, taking care to cover him well against the approaching chill. Rising, she’d brought the shutters partway closed, though not all the way, despite the coming weather. Given his concern over the possibility of being held captive, the last thing she’d wanted was for him to awaken and find himself closed in, even symbolically.

So much had happened since that night, and of course Neirin had ceased long ago to be a stranger, though it had taken some time for him to reach his current role in her life. Tesni watched him now, asleep with his head on the pillow next to hers. His face was peaceful; it seemed no uncomfortable dreams troubled him at the moment, for which she was glad. The lines in the high forehead above the dark brows and long, straight nose had relaxed to near-invisibility, and his lips were parted slightly. She had wondered, before taking him to her bed, whether perhaps he might snore as some men did. But he slept quietly for the most part, his breath a soothing and comforting sound.

She reached out to stroke his hair. The deep gray of iron, laced liberally with strands of brighter silver, it was perhaps just a bit longer now than it had been when they’d met. He still kept it somewhat shorter than many of the other village men, most of whom kept theirs fairly short as it was, but he’d bowed to Pridanic custom or perhaps just the capabilities of the local barber and taken to wearing it this way some time ago. He was, after all, determined to be taken for a Pridano; to “blend in” as he’d put it, on the evening he’d asked her help in choosing a name to go by.

The air in the room carried summer’s warmth, and the light sheet and blanket with which Tesni covered her bed in this season had slipped down, leaving Neirin bare to the waist. He lay on his left side, facing her, and she allowed her eyes to roam the contours of his upper body. He was well-built, broad of chest and shoulders with a flat stomach and muscular arms, his body defined in the manner of one who spent much of his time in strenuous physical activity. His skin was marred here and there by scars, the legacy of a combat soldier’s life, especially in a place where no one had access to the sort of healing devices used by Sabar and the other Tok’ra. There was a particularly large one on the outside of his right shoulder, just below the joint itself. Another decorated his lower chest, barely to the right of the midline, just slightly up from the bottom of his ribcage. Below it, and farther to the right so that it occupied his side, was a nearly horizontal scar that looked to have been caused by a knife wound. He carried a number of minor marks as well, but these three in particular drew her attention, due to the apparent severity of whatever wounds had caused them. There were others in the village who had scars, but none as serious-looking as these.

Until recently, Tesni had seen Neirin shirtless only a handful of times, none of them at such close range. He’d not been hesitant to strip to the waist while hard at work on some physically demanding task in the heat of summer even right after he’d arrived, but although he didn’t seem self-conscious about them, neither she nor anyone else had to her knowledge ever asked him about the origin of any of the marks his body bore. This, despite the fact that he used the men’s public baths along with the other local men. Neirin was a very private person, and she knew that few had the temerity to query him about his past. All the same, she found herself curious; even more so now that he regularly shared her bed and would, she hoped, share her life for the foreseeable future. What sort of weapons made wounds that left scars like these, and what kind of medicine allowed such wounds to heal without lasting physical effects on their owner? The knife wound she could recognize, but as for the rest, she was at a loss to understand. They weren’t the result of energy bolts, that much she was sure of, and the scar on his chest didn’t look to have been caused by arrow, sword or spear, though she couldn’t imagine what had made it. The scar on his shoulder looked in part almost as if someone had cut into his flesh with a very sharp blade, but given the blood vessels that ran through that area, surely a cut of that size and depth should have caused the victim to bleed too greatly to sustain life. How was it, then, that this man had lived?

Too, she realized that although the flesh that made up the scar itself was both raised and slightly puckered, the line of the cut was clean and straight, as if it had been made with great precision. Either someone had struck him a very unusual blow with the cutting edge of a sword, or there were practices on his world that she couldn’t even begin to imagine. Moreover, how such a grievous injury could have healed so well was beyond her, as he had what certainly appeared to be completely normal use of the arm, when by all rights it appeared as though he ought to have lost at the very least some range of motion despite surviving the wound. The same was true of the scar on his chest, she thought, as he stirred slightly and she got a better look at it; she could fathom neither its origin nor why the wound had not killed or incapacitated him. How Neirin had survived his former life at all, let alone done so in the obviously robust good health he currently enjoyed, was a mystery.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and he stirred again, rolling onto his back, apparently without waking, arms partially outstretched. The angle of the light through the window told her the sun had nearly set, and with the evening’s promised storm now clearly on the way, she couldn’t think of a good reason to get up, though she would do so long enough to cover the windows should it decide to rain in. Let the darkness come; the nights were growing shorter as the year turned toward midsummer, and she would savor what she could of them in such company as this. Moving closer, she laid her head on Neirin’s left shoulder, the fingers of her left hand gently stroking his chest, twining in the light growth of hair before tracing the outlines of firm muscle beneath his skin. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, its rhythm lulling her to the very edge of sleep herself. As she prepared to cross that border, she felt him stir once more, his left arm curling upward and around her shoulders, holding her close in the deepening dusk as he drew the covers up over them both.


	29. On the River of Dreams

_Dreaming men are haunted men._ — Stephen Vincent Benet

 

Chilly air filled his nostrils, tinged with desert dust. Digging in the pocket of his field jacket for a pack of cigarettes, Jack fought the urge to sneeze. He leaned against the wall of the barracks, one of the few solid buildings in this camp which was comprised mainly of tents, a few prefab structures like the barracks, and an airstrip. Wan moonlight painted the desert landscape, and a dust devil sprang up between two shadowy structures near the edge of the camp. It whirled across the open space between the buildings before dissipating against the corner of the mess hall, its particles melting back into the landscape from whence it had come.

Cupping a cigarette in his hands, he flicked his lighter. The breeze died for a moment, and he coaxed the cigarette’s tip into flame, taking a deep drag. He held the breath for several seconds before releasing it, imagining he could feel the surge of nicotine into his bloodstream. Relaxing against the wall, he watched the sky, where stars shone brightly overhead. At Incirlik, the base’s lights had often drowned out the dimmer stars, but here there was little light used at night, and he was treated to a brilliant display.

A voice spoke from the shadows — deep, gravelly despite the softness of the words in deference to the late hour and their sleeping comrades just inside the barracks. “Got another one of those?”

Jack looked up as Frank joined him, shrugging into a field jacket that was twin to his own. “What’d you do, run out?”

A grin. “No, but you still owe me from the last time _you_ ran out.” Frank accepted a Marlboro from the pack he held out, and took the proffered lighter, bending his dark head away from the wind as he coaxed the cigarette’s tip to a cherry glow. He handed the lighter back and leaned against the building, next to Jack, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the night.

They puffed in companionable silence for a moment, watching as another dust devil rose up to traverse the ground between the barracks and the mess hall on a suicide mission. It hurled itself against the wall and dissolved. “When d’you think they’re gonna send us in to actually do something?” Frank asked him.

Jack shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me.” They’d been in Saudi long enough to get antsy, having been moved from Incirlik, Turkey to Dhahran weeks ago, and then from there up the Tapline Road to this dusty forward camp, not far from the Iraq border. Since then, they’d left twice, both times for simulations of potential missions that had yet to materialize. “Everything’s been talk, talk and more talk. The way I figure, they’ve got us all out here, they might as well use us.”

Frank nodded, the motion barely detectable in the shadows. “It’s just more bullshit. Back and forth, conditional withdrawals, and in the end we’re all just sitting here, waiting for something to happen. I swear, it’s this damn waiting that’s gonna make me crazy. Already I keep waking up half the friggin’ night.” He gestured with his cigarette, the lit tip describing bright trails in the air. “Keeping us all sitting out here in the middle of nowhere doing nothing is a waste of time. If they haven’t got anything for us to do, send us the hell back already.”

“Something’s gonna happen, Frank. I can feel it.”

Frank looked at him, with that expression that said clearly, _How the hell do you know?_ But he didn’t speak.

“They’re going to find something for us to do, and soon.” Jack dropped his cigarette butt on the dusty earth and ground it beneath the heel of his boot. “I don’t know what, but mark my words, it’ll be big.” He’d been in the military too long not to have developed something of a sixth sense for situations like these.

“Big, huh?” His friend watched him intently. “Whatever it is, bring it. Anything’s better than all this friggin’ waiting.”

O’Neill woke with a start, stretched in the lounge chair that occupied the space next to the telescope on the tiny rooftop deck. He could tell from the stars that he’d been asleep for all of an hour. The breeze was still warm, and carried the sounds and scents of summer. They couldn’t penetrate the cold dread that permeated his stomach, however. His buddy was out there, stuck on an alien planet, in the middle of a storm, and he wasn’t going to be able to relax until they found him. Falling asleep in the lounge chair was nothing more than stress exhaustion, he knew. That he’d dreamed about Frank and another endless eternity they’d spent waiting was telling.

Four days after the conversation his subconscious had just revisited, he and Frank and the rest of their team had been sent on a mission that was every bit as big as he’d told Frank it would be. And at its end, Jack had lain bleeding on the dusty ground while his teammates took off in the helo that had come to extract them. Shortly after that, he’d been hauled off to prison by the Iraqis…

 _Not Frank’s fault._ He scrubbed a hand across his face, grateful that at least he’d only dreamed about the tension and the waiting before the mission, rather than anything that had happened afterward.

Levering himself upright, still slightly stiff and sore from the beating he’d taken in the Gate Room fighting the gravity well and then his impact with the concrete wall when the alien gravity released him back to the local field of Earth — thank goodness the others had managed to pull him close enough to the Control Room that he hadn’t had that much rope to swing on and build up momentum — he sat sideways on the lounge, looking up again. Despite his best intentions, he’d dozed off while picking out constellations. The star guide had fallen to the surface of the deck when he’d dozed off; he picked it up and then stood, stretching before settling the cover back on the telescope. Perhaps he’d try going inside and sleeping after all. If the MALP indicated that the storms had abated in the morning, he knew he’d be a lot more help in finding Frank if he’d at least gotten a little bit of rest between now and then.

He just hoped he wouldn’t dream about anything beyond what he already had tonight.

 

***

 

General Hammond stood in the Control Room, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He sipped at the liquid as he watched Lieutenant Simmons key the address for P2A-870 into the dialing computer. It was 0650, and the general was already on his second cup of the day.

The seventh chevron locked, and the familiar _kawoosh_ of a newly-established wormhole followed. As the wormhole stabilized, Hammond hoped that this time they would find that the weather on the planet had cleared.

“Receiving and recording MALP telemetry now,” reported Simmons. As the general looked up, an image coalesced on the screen above their heads. Rain, falling in gray sheets that obscured the predawn light, supplemented by intense flashes that had to be nearby lightning strikes. The MALP’s microphone carried the sound of thunder, so loud that it had to be almost directly over the gate. SG-1 wouldn’t be returning to P2A-870 just yet, it seemed.

“The storms are still continuing, sir,” said Simmons.

“I can see that, Lieutenant,” replied Hammond. “Go ahead and shut it down for now. I’m not sending anyone through into that, when they won’t be able to do anything anyway.”

“Yes, sir.” Simmons set about placing the MALP back into standby mode before terminating the gate connection. “That has to be one enormous storm system, sir.”

The general nodded. “It’s bigger than anything I’ve seen in a long time, son,” he acknowledged as the wormhole sizzled out of existence. From all appearances, the storm system currently affecting the area around the other planet’s gate was bigger than even the worst thunderstorms he’d experienced while living in Texas. It reminded him almost of monsoon season in Southeast Asia…

There was a quiet cough, and he turned to find Major Ferretti standing by the stairwell, just inside the Control Room. “Was that P2A-870, sir? The planet where Colonel Cromwell is?”

Hammond nodded. “Yes, Major.”

The major swore softly. “Damn.”

The general looked at him curiously. Ferretti was in command of SG-2, and Hammond assumed he would be busy preparing for his team’s mission to P4X-293, scheduled for later that day, not hanging around the Control Room. “Did you need to see me, Major?”

“No sir. I was just curious as to what was happening on P2A-870. I was really hoping those storms would have ended by now.” Ferretti shook his head. “We’re sure the colonel’s there, though, right?”

“O’Neill found a unit coin belonging to Colonel Cromwell on the planet’s surface.” Hammond cocked his head at the major. “I wasn’t aware that you knew Colonel Cromwell.”

Ferretti nodded. “I met him and O’Neill at the same time, when they were both majors, right after I made captain. All three of us served together for a couple of years, back before the Gulf. I remember the two of them used to pal around all the time, like they were brothers or something.”

“I knew they were close friends,” acknowledged the general.

“Oh yeah.” The major grinned. “You never saw one of them without the other.” His expression sobered then. “I was in a different unit during the war, but I heard afterward what had happened to O’Neill. Later, when I wound up on his team again, he never mentioned Cromwell, but I knew why. Didn’t think it was fair, but I never said anything. Wasn’t my place.” He grimaced. “Shit happens. Cromwell’s a nice guy though, or he always was to me, anyway. I haven’t seen him since before the Gulf, but I’d sure like to. When I heard it was him we’d lost through the Gate…”

“SG-1 will be continuing the search just as soon as the weather clears on that planet, Major,” Hammond assured him. “I don’t think there’s anyone more eager to find Cromwell than Colonel O’Neill.”

Ferretti nodded again. “Oh, I know, sir. Word travels. If they need any more help, though, SG-2 would like the mission. Assuming we’re back from P4X-293, of course. That is, unless there’s any chance of postponing?”

General Hammond shook his head. “We’re already two weeks behind on our planned mission schedule as it is, Major, given that we lost that much time to that gravity well in the first place. Your team is only scheduled for twenty-four hours on the survey run. If Cromwell isn’t back by then and if SG-1 needs help, I’ll consider making that your team’s next mission.”

Ferretti saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

 


	30. A Slip of the Tongue

_He is not a lover who does not love forever_. — Euripedes

  


Cromwell stretched carefully, easing muscles still cramped from too long spent in one position as he’d helped to weed the shared kitchen garden that lay behind Bennaeth House. He enjoyed the work, but wished heartily that he’d remembered to stand up and stretch more often while he’d done it. He’d been so completely focused on the task that a cramp had caught him in his lower back before he realized how long he’d been bending over the rows, pulling out the yellow-green tufts of cloudweed that stubbornly insinuated themselves among the turnips, leeks and kale laid out in orderly fashion. The work reminded him of the hours he and Nick had spent weeding their grandparents’ garden as boys, during summer vacations spent in the rural countryside just outside Nanticoke, Pennsylvania. It was hard work, but fresh produce from the garden had always been well worth the effort. _It was a hell of a lot easier on the back when I was twelve than it is now, though._

In the time since he’d first found himself living in Llanavon, he’d taken his share of turns at a motley collection of chores. Tasks like preparing meals or cleaning up after them were universal, but more than a few of the other chores also harkened back to things he’d done on Earth, either in adulthood or in his youth, like gardening, building or fixing fences and other structures, and caring for the community’s collection of animals including horses, goats, chickens and cattle. He’d always liked horses, and as for cattle, he’d milked the neighbor’s cows to earn spending money as a teenager, both at home in Tennessee and during those Pennsylvanian summers. Although doing so with the aid of modern milking machinery was a far cry from the old-fashioned method used here; still, he enjoyed spending time around animals, and even Llanavon’s milk cows were no exception. If he’d been destined to wind up in a place such as this, he reflected, he was glad that at least he’d grown up in the country rather than the city. _Being here would’ve been one mother of an adjustment to make if I were from, say, Chicago or Miami._

The colonel rubbed surreptitiously at the small of his back as he knelt to lay a fire in the hearth of Tesni’s cottage. The heat of two days previous had broken, and as the sun sank toward the west, this evening promised to actually be cool and somewhat damp. He’d noted the scent of approaching rain on the walk back from dinner. Tesni assured him that one or two cooler snaps like this over the course of the summer weren’t unusual, although they generally didn’t occur this close to midsummer, now only two days away.

As he finished arranging logs and kindling, he realized he’d left the tinderbox on the table next to the settle. “ _Cariad_ , would you bring the tinderbox?”

Tesni knelt beside him, carrying the stamped tin container which held the flint, fire-steel, char-cloth and tinder. “I’ll do this,” she said. “Will you make sure the lamps are filled, please?”

He kissed her and moved to rise, feeling another twinge in his back as he did so. He caught Tesni’s frown as she watched him stand, and forced himself to straighten as he went to the cupboard for the flask of lamp oil. He checked the lamps, adding oil to two of them, and trimmed their wicks. By the time he’d finished and put away the oil flask, Tesni had the beginnings of a cheery blaze in the hearth. She lit a taper and joined him at the table, touching the taper to the lamp-wicks before blowing it out.

Cromwell set one lamp on its shelf next to the bedroom door and one on the side table next to the settle. The third he left on the dining table, where Tesni had busied herself opening a stone jug of cider and setting out cups. Returning to the table, he saw her uncork a small flask and tip several drops of liquid into one of the cups before splashing perhaps a quarter-cup of cider into it. She held the cup out to him. “Here, drink this.”

“What is it?” He took the mug and sniffed.

“Willow-bark tincture; what else? I saw the way you were favoring your back just now, and I was in the garden with you this afternoon. Drink.”

He did so, making a face at the bitter taste of the medicine. Still, he’d had plenty of occasions on which to be convinced of its efficacy, and arguing with Tesni was the furthest thing from his mind.

She took the cup from him and filled it full of cider, handing it back so he could wash the aftertaste from his mouth. As he did so, she took his hand and began leading him toward the bedroom. “Come and lie down on the bed,” she told him.

“I’m not tired,” he protested.

She favored him with an amused look. “Did I say I thought you were?”

“Ah… no… Tesni, you just saw that my back hurts. I —”

She interrupted. “Yes, and I’m going to fix that.” Taking the cup again, she set it on the night table. “Take off your tunic, and lie face-down for me, please.”

He did as she asked, noting as he stretched himself on the bed that she’d taken a small jar from a drawer in the night table. As she removed its lid, he caught a whiff of something pungently herbal. He’d spent long enough among the Pridani, and also in his grandmother’s herb garden, to recognize the scents of chamomile and rosemary, and he could hardly mistake wintergreen, which was by far the strongest component. Whatever was in the jar smelled for all the world like Bengay, and he realized belatedly that for all intents and purposes, it most likely was the local version.

She noticed him sniffing the air. “I have a salve for sore muscles,” she explained. “My back doesn’t often bother me, but I sometimes use this on my legs after I run.” A moment later he felt her touch the hollow of his spine just above the waist of his breeches, something slick on her fingers imparting a warming sensation where it touched his skin. She began to massage, adding the warmth of her own hands to that of the salve as she kneaded the area where he’d been able to feel his muscles knot and stiffen over the past several hours. “I don’t know how you even managed to sit through dinner with your back this tight,” she commented.

“I’ve had worse pain,” he assured her. “Believe me.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, Neirin. Still, there’s no sense in hurting when you don’t have to.”

She continued to work on his back for several minutes, her hands far stronger than he’d expected, her touch sure. He felt the cramped muscles ease, the pain disappearing under her ministrations. As the tension in his lower back vanished, she began to work her way up his back, until finally she reached his shoulders. She finished by planting a kiss on the back of his neck. “Better now?” she asked.

“Mmmmm. Yes, much better. Thank you.”

She laughed. “You’re welcome.” He felt her slip off the bed, heard the night table drawer open and close again, then footsteps and the splash of water as she washed up. “I like the smell of wintergreen,” she said, “but I don’t need it all over my hands.”

Cromwell rolled onto his side, watching her. “I don’t blame you.” He raised himself on one elbow and reached for the cider cup, taking a sip as Tesni approached the bed again. Smiling, he set it down and patted the space next to him.

She joined him, and he took her in his arms, kissing her before asking, “Why are you so good to me?”

Smiling back, she traced the side of his face with fingertips still scented faintly with wintergreen. “Because you’re good to me. And because I love you.”

He never tired of hearing those words, nor of saying them. They were one more reminder of the great gift he’d been given. As if retaining his life after he’d meant to give it up weren’t enough, having been blessed with friends in this place and a role in which he was useful to them was even better. But on top of all that, to have Tesni’s love was almost an embarrassment of riches. Cromwell knew he might never see the world of his birth again, but for all of that, the life he had here felt more nearly complete than what he’d had there in many years.

“I love you too,” he said, kissing her again.

Some time later, they lay drowsing to the sound of night insects beyond the half-closed shutters and the crackle of the fire on the hearth in the next room. Slipping into somnolence, Cromwell’s thoughts wandered until he found himself in Colorado Springs, in the home he’d once shared with his wife. _A modern fireplace graced the living room there, and he and Lisa had loved to build a fire in it on cool nights when he was home, and sit before the blaze, talking and sharing a bottle of wine. In his half-dream, he found himself there again, some ten or more years in the past, in the company of the raven-haired beauty he had married when she was only nineteen and he twenty-five. Seated on the hearth rug, they chatted, sipping wine, eventually twined in each other’s arms…_

“Oh, I didn’t mean for us to fall asleep. We should at least get up and put out the lamps, and bank the fire.” A hand shook his arm gently. “Neirin, will you wake up and help?”

Neirin? Who’s Neirin? _he thought curiously. Turning, he wrapped his arms more tightly around Lisa. He only had four more nights at home before he had to leave again, this time for a training course at Lackland. Not so far away nor for so long as his recent deployments, but Lisa was remaining at home, and he planned to enjoy what time he had left with her before they would have to be apart again for a while._

“At least help me with the shutters,” the voice said, shaking his arm again. “Come on, sleepyhead.”

 _The living room and the fireplace began to fade, and he realized he might be dreaming. One part of him fought to hold onto the dream, even as another acknowledged the necessity of waking. For some reason, he was now expected to get up, although it didn’t feel like morning. Still…_

“All right, Lisa, I’ll come and help,” he mumbled, shifting.

The voice which had insisted on waking him laughed, a musical sound. “Now there’s a word I haven’t heard you use before, _fy nghalon_. What does it mean?”

He froze in the act of opening his eyes, realizing that he had spoken aloud, and what he had said — in Pridanic, automatically answering the question that had been asked in that tongue. Except that he’d included one obviously non-Pridanic word.

Lisa. His wife’s name. Ex-wife, surely, by now, but still…

Every clichéd image from television, film and literature wherein a man called one partner by the name of another crowded his mind at once, and he felt his face grow hot even as his stomach turned to ice. He’d spoken while still in the grip of a dream — _and why that dream, now?_ — but still, he couldn’t take the word back, and he wasn’t about to lie to Tesni.

Not when she’d given him so much, beyond anything he’d ever deserved or expected. He couldn’t repay that with lies.

He looked up to see Tesni leaning over him, a curious look on her face. “Is something wrong, Neirin?”

“No. Yes. That is, I don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand across his face, willing himself all the way awake and coherent.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “Were you having a bad dream?”

 _Dear God, no, not a bad one. Just one that was highly inappropriate, given the circumstances._ Or is it the circumstances that are inappropriate? A little voice in the back of his mind insisted on asking him that very unhelpful question. _No,_ he told it fiercely. _I’ve probably got about a snowball’s chance in hell of getting home at this point, and I’ll be as damned as that snowball if I’m going to live like a monk for the rest of my life. Not now that I actually_ have _a life._

Tesni was still staring at him, concerned now. “No,” he said. “Not a bad dream. It’s just taking me a minute to wake up, all right?” Anything to buy himself a moment to think.

Her face relaxed. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have woken you at all. I could have done this without help. Go back to sleep, _cariad_.” She moved, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to stand.

Cromwell joined her, pulling on his pants as she lifted her nightdress from the bedpost and slipped it over her head. “I’m awake, Tesni. What was it you wanted me to do?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Really, it’s fine. Lie down, and I’ll be back in a minute or two.”

“No, I’m awake now. I don’t think I’ll be going back to sleep for a while.” He pulled on his tunic. “Whatever it was that you needed, I’ll help.” _It’s the least I can do, and maybe while I’m busy with that, I can think of what I should do next._

“I really didn’t intend to disturb your sleep for the whole night, Neirin,” Tesni apologized as she padded toward the living room. “I wasn’t entirely awake myself, and all I could think of was needing to close the shutters and extinguish the lamps. I don’t know why I asked for help.”

“It’s all right,” he assured her, picking up the empty mug from the night table and carrying it with him as he followed her. In the front room, he set the mug on the table and crossed to the nearest window, where he drew the shutters closed. It had grown decidedly cooler outside, and he could smell rain in the air again.

Tesni went to the other window, securing its shutters. “So, what was that word you used? ‘Lee-sah’. I’ve never heard it before. I assume it’s something in your birth language?” She flashed him a smile.

There was no avoiding it; he was going to have to explain things tonight. _And if not tonight, just when_ would _you have done it?_ the little voice in the back of his mind wanted to know.

Sinking down onto a bench at the table, the colonel rested his forehead on one hand for a moment before looking up at her. “Tesni, sit down for a moment. There’s a story I should tell you. I probably should have told you long before this, to be perfectly honest.”

Giving him an odd look, she took a seat on the bench opposite. The cider jug still stood there, along with her own cup, which she had never filled. She pushed them aside, folding her hands in front of her on the table. “I’m listening,” she said, tilting her head to one side and favoring him with a confused smile.

He drew a deep breath. “Tesni…” _Good grief, how does one do this, exactly?_ “That word you heard me use is a name. I was dreaming; I wasn’t all the way awake when I spoke.” _Knock it off, Cromwell; you sound exactly like a man who’s making excuses._ “The name belongs to my wife, and I was dreaming I was back on my world with her, a long time ago. I didn’t mean to call you by her name, and I’m sorry.”

Tesni’s eyes widened a bit; then she nodded. “I wondered if perhaps you had been wed on your own world. I thought you might.”

“You thought so?” _Wait, what am I missing here?_

She nodded. “You’re certainly of an age to have been married, just as I am, and I would have been more surprised to learn that you hadn’t than to learn that you had.”

“Tesni, why did you never just ask? I would have told you.”

A shrug. “You don’t like to be asked questions about your life before you came to be among us. So I didn’t want to pry. Until recently, there was no reason for it to be any of my business anyway.”

Cromwell shook his head. “That changed rather dramatically not long ago, though, didn’t it? And yet you still have never asked.”

Tesni shrugged again. “You’re an honest man, Neirin, and I don’t need to know your entire life story to know that. I trust that if there were any reason why you and I should not be together, you wouldn’t have begun a relationship with me. Once you did, I believed that if there were anything I needed to know, you would tell me.”

This was becoming confusing. “So you were sure that I was married, but… but what, exactly?’

“You’ve never mentioned your wife, so I assumed that either she had died, or that one or both of you had chosen to end your marriage. Unless you had an open marriage, as some of our people do, but custom requires that a person at least disclose that to other partners, as I would guess it would among your people as well. Since you’ve never said anything, I was sure it wasn’t that.”

The colonel simply stared at her, willing his brain to work its way through everything she had just told him. “No,” he said at last. “I was married on my world, beginning twenty-two years ago, and it was _not_ an open marriage. She still lives, as far as I know, and as of the time I left my world we were still married under the laws and customs of our people, but I had not seen her or spoken with her in more than eight years.”

Tesni nodded. “Under our laws and customs, an absence of that long with no contact constitutes divorce, by the intent of the person who left his or her spouse. It happens sometimes. This is different among your people?”

He reached for the cider jug, splashing a healthy amount into his cup. “Yes and no. Legally, it takes more than that to end a marriage, although an absence like that can be grounds for doing so. Neither of us had taken legal steps to formally end things, though. I think we were each waiting for the other to do that.”

 “So what happened, exactly?” Tesni’s tone was curious. “Did you not love each other enough?”

He shook his head, staring at the table top. “It wasn’t that.”

“Do you still love her, Neirin?” she asked gently after a moment.

 _What a question!_ The colonel looked up, meeting Tesni’s eyes. “I think once you love someone deeply enough, you never really stop loving them. But it doesn’t always mean you can be together. We tried, but it wasn’t working.” He swallowed. “Please don’t think this means I love you any less.”

She reached out to pat his hand before picking up the cider jug and filling her own cup. “I know it doesn’t mean that, Neirin. I’ve never stopped loving Eogen, even though he died years ago. I love you just as much, and you’re here. He isn’t. Your situation with Lisa isn’t all that different, even if what separates you is circumstance rather than death.”

He nodded, unsure of his tongue just then.

Setting down the cider jug, Tesni fixed him once more with a curious look. “So what was the problem, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Having come this far, Cromwell felt compelled to answer. “It was my career. We loved each other, and we enjoyed being together when we could be. But my being… a soldier… it meant that we were apart far too much. Lisa was unhappy about it. I was too, though we’d both known we would be separated for months at a time, even up to a year on occasion. We thought we could handle it, but it was terribly hard. I think it was harder on her than it was on me, because I was busier and had so much going on that it occupied more of my mind.”

“Why did you have to be apart for so long?”

The colonel cast about for a way to explain. “Tesni, I was already a soldier when I met her. And I was sent all over my world, often to places where we couldn’t bring our families. Sometimes we could, and when that was possible, Lisa did come along. We lived in various places that way. But a lot of the time, the places I was sent to were deemed too dangerous for families to be there with us, and when that happened, I had to leave her behind at home. I might spend most of a year in a war zone, and while we could send letters or… well, my world has devices that allow people to talk over long distances, kind of like some of the communicators the Tok’ra use, though we didn’t get to use them more than every few days or weeks… anyway, it was hard. We had aircraft, vehicles that flew, so we could get from place to place around the world. But it took a lot of resources to operate them and hours or even days to travel, so it didn’t happen often that I got to go home and see her. It wasn’t as simple as here, where someone’s entire family might live in Llanavon with him or with her, and then when it’s time for a mission, we just go off through the stargate and then come back when we’ve done what we set out to do.”

Even as he spoke the words, he wondered at the irony of referring to traveling vast distances between star systems via a piece of alien technology he couldn’t begin to understand as something “simple” while the concept of flying around the world on an airplane, which he could at least explain in theory, became the more complicated option. He took a drink of cider as his mind tried to wrap around the strangeness.

“Wait, what was going on so far from your stargate that you had to be there?”

Cromwell realized he’d neglected to explain one crucial part of the equation to her. “Tesni… on my world, sad to say, we spend more time and effort fighting each other than we do fighting the Goa’uld. That’s because almost no one on my world is even aware of the Goa’uld’s existence, but various groups of people on my world have disputes with other groups and sometimes the military is involved. I’ve been a military officer for twenty-five years, but even I only found out about the Goa’uld and the stargate less than five months before I ended up here. Until that point, my entire career had been spent dealing with purely human conflicts in places all over my own world.”

She stared at him. “Someone should explain the Goa’uld to the common people of your world. Then perhaps they’d stop fighting among themselves so much. They’re going to face problems otherwise.”

 _She makes it sound so simple. Then again, how do I know that it isn’t?_ “Honestly, I don’t disagree with you. But it isn’t my decision to make, and never will be; not even if I get back there someday.”

“Well then, I think you’re better off here, among people who at least aren’t ignorant of what a genuine threat is.”

He couldn’t really argue with her. “You may be right about that, too, _cariad_.”

Tesni sipped at her cider. “So… in the end, what made you and your wife choose not to remain married?”

He sighed. This was where he was certain to come off looking like a complete monster if he was honest. Yet, if he was anything less than honest with Tesni, he knew he couldn’t in good conscience continue their relationship. _I guess it’s better to be rejected for the truth than to lie to her. There’s already plenty I’ve kept secret from her, though at least I don’t lie to her about any of it. I’ll be damned if I’m going to start now._

He set his cup on the table. “It’s complicated. For one thing, the work I did in my people’s military entailed a lot of secrecy. Half the time, Lisa didn’t have any idea where I really was, or what I was doing, and I wasn’t allowed to tell her about it. You already seen a few unpleasant things yourself, I know; now multiply that by a large factor, because my particular unit was involved in some very messy activities. And we didn’t even have the comfort of knowing that the enemies we fought against were trying to enslave us, because the enemy was often made up of people very much like ourselves who either simply happened to hold a different set of philosophical beliefs, or who had managed to be born into the opposing group and possibly not even given a choice as to whether or not they would fight.”

“If I’ve read my history correctly, this sounds like some of what happened during _yr amser cyfrwng y rhwyfaniadau_ — the time between dominations, what I referred to the other night as the Deceiver’s Interregnum.”

The colonel shook his head. “This is probably much worse. It was a nasty business, a lot of it, and while I’m proud of some things I’ve done, there’s probably almost as much that I’d rather never have had to be involved in. But a lot of the time, I didn’t have very much choice, either; in fact I often didn’t even know for sure what was going on behind the scenes until long after my part in it was done. There’s a line I wouldn’t have crossed no matter who told me to, but even things that fell far short of it had an effect. And the hardest part was that when I did get to go home and spend time with Lisa, I’d have all this going on in the back of my head, making me less than pleasant company, and I couldn’t even talk to her about it except in the most abstract terms. So I didn’t bother trying at all, most of the time. Besides, I didn’t feel like it should be her job to deal with the things I had to deal with. I was out there doing what I did so that people like her wouldn’t have to be concerned with any of it.”

Tesni poured more cider into his cup. “And I’m guessing she wasn’t comfortable knowing that you were unhappy but not being allowed to know why, so that she could try to help?”

He snorted. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

“Well, I can’t really blame her for that, Neirin.”

Pained, he looked at her. “Don’t you think I know that?”

Her expression softened. “Of course you do. I’m sorry, that didn’t come out quite right.” She took his hand, running her thumb along the back of it, as she always did when she tried to soothe him. “All I meant was that if you came home to me with something on your mind, I’d want to know what it was so that I could help you deal with it. Then again, there’s every chance, at least theoretically, that I might be the one having to deal with whatever I’ve encountered, and needing to talk about it.”

“And you know I’d listen and understand. Tesni, that’s the difference between you and me, and Lisa and me. I never pictured myself paired with a woman who’d been in combat herself, or who’d dealt even in the remotest sense with any of the kind of stuff I’ve dealt with. Lisa wouldn’t have had the frame of reference necessary, I don’t think, even if I’d been able to talk to her about half the stuff I knew. You don’t really have the frame of reference for most of what happened to me on my own planet, but you certainly understand what the _Am Rhyddid_ is up against, because you’ve been in the thick of it longer than I have. We can talk, if we need to. Not that I’ve ever really been in the habit of talking about things that bother me, but you all — the Pridani, I mean — do that as a matter of course. And you personally have me doing it sometimes now, if only to you. Though I think you also understand when I don’t want to.”

“Sometimes I don’t want to either, Neirin. It’s another of those things that make us very much alike.” She paused. “Eogen was like that too. So you might say I’ve already been down this road once before, and know how to navigate it from both directions.”

Cromwell reached for her other hand, and held them both. “I wondered if maybe that was the case.”

Tesni nodded. “I hope it will help us. I think it may.” She gave his hands a squeeze. “So… your wife decided this was all too difficult, and she didn’t want the marriage anymore?”

He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t like that. We both wanted to be married to each other. We loved each other very much. But she kept wanting me to alter what I did, to ask the military to give me a different job. One that wouldn’t create so many secrets between us, and maybe wouldn’t send me so far away quite so often, either. And I couldn’t do it, at least not right away.”

Lisa had understood why, on one level. She’d met him and Jack at the same time, and over the years of their marriage she’d seen firsthand how close they were, how committed to looking out for each other, even if that meant going shoulder-to-shoulder into hell and back. She didn’t begrudge Jack one iota of her husband’s loyalty, and she’d made that clear from the beginning. At the same time, though, both she and Sarah had occasionally pressed the men to consider seeking a change, especially after Jack and Sarah had Charlie. But Jack couldn’t bring himself to do it, and that meant that he wouldn’t, either.

 _But how do I explain that to Tesni?_ “You know I’ve mentioned my friend Jack, the one I’ve been hoping would come here through the stargate looking for me?” At her nod, he continued. “Jack and I were best friends, and we were partners in everything we did. We had been since before I met Lisa. If it weren’t for Jack, I’d have been dead over twenty years ago, or on any of a number of occasions since that time. I’d saved his life once or twice too, and neither of us was willing to leave the other, because there wasn’t anyone either of us trusted more than the other as a partner.”

“So unless he changed what he was doing, you couldn’t either, Tesni observed.

“I really couldn’t. If I had, and he went off without me and something happened to him, I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself, wondering if I could have prevented it if I’d been there. If things had been the other way around, I know it would have been the same for him. Neither of us was going to make a change without the other. Does that make sense?”

She nodded again. “It does to me. Did Lisa not understand?”

“No, she understood. But she was still unhappy about it. We started having arguments about it sometimes. Not big ones, but even enough little ones can eat away at things, and I began to worry that maybe being with me was hurting her more than it made her happy. I didn’t feel right about that, but like I said, I was stuck. I owed Jack my life, but I owed Lisa some happiness, because she sure hadn’t married me just so she could be miserable.” He’d felt pulled nearly in two, back in those days, and the memory was still painful, years later.

With a grimace, he continued, “I was still trying to figure out what to do about it when somebody went and started another war halfway around the world from where we lived, and Jack and I had to go and deal with that. We were gone for months, and while we were there, something happened to Jack anyway… and it was my fault, or at least partly my fault.”

“What happened?”

Cromwell looked down at the tabletop, where their hands were still entwined. “We were out on a mission with the team we were part of, and we were nearly finished and ready to return to the base we’d come from. There was an air vehicle coming to retrieve us, when the enemy figured out we were there.”

He recounted to her his horror as the mission had disintegrated in its final moments; how they’d lost their CO, and then, just as it had seemed they were on the verge of extraction, Jack had been shot too. “I wanted to at least retrieve his body. But I was in charge of what was left of the team, and under the circumstances — since I was sure he was dead — I had to order the rest of the guys out before somebody else got killed. I was hit in the shooting, too, just as I gave the order. Both sides used weapons that shoot bullets, solid projectiles made of metal. You’ve seen my right shoulder; two bullets hit me there. I got lucky; at least they didn’t get any major arteries or a bone, just meat and connective tissue. Less than an inch either way, with either of them, and I might have lost the use of the arm, or even died from blood loss. At least that’s what the doctors told me. But I did have to be carved up a bit to fix everything afterward.” He could see her confusion over his meaning. “I’ll explain that part later, if you still want to hear about it.”

“Please.”

“All right.” He flexed the shoulder a bit, remembered pain making it ache anew. _Or is that the rain that I know is coming?_ “Anyway, those of us who were left made it to the aircraft and got away. We had to leave behind the bodies of Jack and our commanding officer, and we barely made it out of there as it was. Another couple of minutes and we’d have been completely overrun, pinned down, and probably lost the aircraft too. I actually got sent back home for my shoulder to heal, and I spent two months thinking my best friend was dead. I was even thinking of quitting what I’d been doing and doing something else. I didn’t want to leave the military, but with Jack gone I figured I could at least make Lisa happy by having them give me a different job, something that would maybe keep me closer to home, the way she wanted.

“And then I got called into the office of one of my superiors — something like the _cadlywydd_ , only we had several of them — who told me he’d just learned that Jack wasn’t dead after all. Somehow, he’d survived getting shot, but he’d been taken prisoner. ”

Cromwell swallowed hard. “Tesni, the people we’d been fighting tended to torture prisoners. I wanted to go back and try to get Jack out of there. My shoulder was already healed enough that I’d been ordered back to where the war was happening, and I left that night to go there, already putting a plan together in my head of how to rescue him. Only nobody would let me try, and Jack spent two more months in prison before he was finally freed after the end of the war and sent home. I saw him once after that, but he wouldn’t talk to me.”

The colonel fell silent for a moment, remembering the effort he’d put forth to try to free his friend, only to be forbidden by General West from even making the attempt. “I’d barely said goodbye to Lisa when I’d left after finding out Jack was alive, and I barely even called or wrote to her while I’d been gone after that, because I didn’t really want to talk to anyone then. I was afraid she’d just start asking me to transfer again, and I couldn’t commit to that when I didn’t know how things would turn out with Jack. Besides, I was so mad at myself for letting him get into that situation that I wasn’t fit company, and I knew it.”

“I don’t see how it was your fault that he got captured,” Tesni told him gently. “You did what you had to do, and you thought he was dead. Besides, you were wounded too. What else could you have done?”

Cromwell sighed. “I know that, in my head anyway. It’s the rest of me that says otherwise, and at the time, that was all I was listening to. It’s all I listened to for several years afterward, for that matter.”

“Neirin, that’s an awful thing to do to yourself.”

He withdrew his hands from hers, folding them both around his cup. “Look, you asked what happened, and I’m just telling you.” He shrugged. “It probably didn’t help that Jack seemed to agree that it was my fault. When he wouldn’t even speak to me, I knew perfectly well that having me around was going to be even less pleasant for Lisa than anything I’d put her through before, and she deserved so much better than that. I got promoted and sent back overseas in command of a team of my own, and I just didn’t bother going home anymore. I sent Lisa most of my pay, and otherwise left her alone to find someone who would make her happy instead of miserable. I’d hurt her too much already, and I knew I didn’t have any way to fix it, so I just stayed gone.”

He gazed down into the cup, watching bubbles rise to the top of the cider as he gathered himself to admit out loud what kind of coward he was. “That was nine years ago, Tesni. I swore I’d never walk out on anyone, never leave anyone. It isn’t right. But that’s exactly what I did, and you may as well know.”

“And what did you do for nine — no, eight years?” Her tone held none of the condemnation he was sure he deserved. Merely curiosity; tempered, he could swear, by understanding.

“I did my job, and not much else. I was promoted again after a few years, which surprises me to this day. I had a team of my own, a lot like I have right now; and even the same rank, more or less. It wasn’t so bad when I was busy, but downtime was another story. I tried to avoid thinking about anything beyond my work even then, and when I couldn’t manage that, I’d lose myself in a book, or failing that, a bottle. As far as I was concerned, there really wasn’t anything else worth bothering with anyway. I figured I’d already either lost or thrown away most of whatever had any real value in my life.”

Weary of talking, he lifted the cider cup and drank, intending to finish it and then leave. He couldn’t imagine that Tesni would still want him around after what he’d just told her, no matter what he thought he might have heard in her voice.

“Neirin.”

He set the cup down and looked at her. “I’m going; you don’t have to say anything.” He moved to rise, only to freeze when she spoke again.

“Neirin ab Owein, you stay right there.” Now her voice was sharp, speaking the full name that she herself had given him. “You haven’t told me the rest of the story.” She splashed more cider into his cup. _Not that I’d exactly mind being drunk right about now, in this mood, but Scotch would do the job a hell of a lot faster,_ he thought.

“What more is there to tell?” he asked bitterly. “You asked what happened to my marriage, and I told you. I screwed up, and then I walked out on my wife. It’s not the kind of story that has a happy ending, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

In answer, Tesni stood and made her way around the table. She took a seat next to him, straddling the bench, and reached over to cup his cheek with her hand, turning his face toward hers. “Life is full of stories that don’t have happy endings,” she said quietly, looking into his eyes. “Or have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

She kissed him then. He responded, reflex taking over where coherent thought left off, sliding his arms around her as she did the same to him. After a moment, he pulled back to stare into her face. The clear blue-gray gaze held his, unwavering.

He looked away. “I hadn’t forgotten,” he said. “I just don’t want you to worry that I’ll give you something else to be unhappy about.”

“I’m not worried about that. You said it yourself: we have a completely different situation, you and I.”

He nodded, still not trusting himself to meet her eyes. “We do.”

“All right. And I know we just recently began exploring what we might have the potential to build between us, but I have to ask: are you happy when we’re together?”

 _Christ, what a question!_ “I would have thought that was obvious by now, Tesni.” This time, he did look her in the eye. “That’s what scares me, I think. Knowing how I feel about you, and wondering if I’m going to wake up some morning thinking everything’s fine, only to have it all change by nightfall.”

She kissed him again, briefly this time. “Neirin, I’ve never known anyone who doesn’t worry about that on some level.”

It was probably true, he realized. Born and raised here, on a planet under the control of the Goa’uld, Tesni had lost people she cared about periodically throughout her thirty-five years, and so had everyone around her. Not that this didn’t happen to everyone, sooner or later. He himself had lost his maternal grandparents, an aunt and even his own brother before he finished high school, and both parents — his father to a heart attack, his mother to an automobile accident — by the time he was a year out of university, a young officer just beginning his career. His father’s elderly parents had passed away the following year, within months of one another, leaving him feeling oddly rootless and adrift at twenty-four, with only the Air Force providing him firm purchase on the rocky landscape of young adulthood. It was shortly after that when he’d decided to apply for entry into Special Operations and he soon found himself in training, where he’d met a wisecracking first lieutenant six weeks older than himself, to the day: one Jonathan “Jack” O’Neill, who went on to become the person he counted on most, and who counted on him _… Yeah, until that got all fouled up…_

But he’d fixed it, winding up here in the process. That, he realized, was the part of the story he still hadn’t told her.

“I suppose neither of us does, really,” he acknowledged. “I recall you asking me once, right here where we’re sitting, whether I trusted you. I think I’d known you all of twelve hours then, and I said yes.”

“I remember,” she said, tracing the side of his face with her fingertips, from temple to jawline.

His pulse leapt at the caress. “I still trust _you_ , Tesni. The universe, not so much.” He swallowed. “I just told you more about the past twenty years of my life than I’ve told anyone, ever, and you’d be completely justified if it left you concerned about my ability to give you any sort of pleasant future. There’s more to the story, and I promised to tell it, but before I do, I have to know if you’ve any reservation at all about trusting me. Because if you do, I’ll understand. I just want it out in the open.”

Affectionate exasperation painted her features. “Neirin, if you’ll recall the rest of that evening, I trusted you as well, when we’d known each other those twelve hours. There’s not a single thing that’s happened since to change that, nor does anything you’ve told me, either. Does that answer your question adequately?”

He drew her close then, burying his face in her hair for a moment. _Cromwell, you’ve just been given another gift you know you don’t deserve. Whatever you do or say,_ don’t _screw this up._ After a moment, he drew back again, kissing her gently. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Thunder sounded; the front that had brought the evening’s unusual cool was about to deliver the rain it had promised. Tesni glanced at the windows. “I suppose we ought to close the shutters in the bedroom, too,” she said, disentangling herself from him and standing. “Will you do that while I add another log to the fire, please?”

As they set about arranging the cottage and themselves for the coming storm, Cromwell was glad he had thought to secure the shutters on his own home as soon as he’d smelled rain in the air earlier. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave here now.

 


	31. With Face to the Future

_Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back: a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country._ — Anais Nin

 

With the shutters closed, the fire poked to life and two lamps still burning in the front room, Tesni’s home seemed cozy as they began to hear rain falling outside. Tesni pulled two large floor cushions over in front of the fireplace, the way they’d been set on the first night he’d spent in her bed. “I still want to hear the rest of your tale, if you don’t mind telling it,” she said, sitting down and patting the cushion beside her.

The colonel joined her, noting that she’d casually arranged things so that his right side was toward the warmth of the fire when he sat facing her. The heat felt good on his shoulder, which had begun to ache with the advent of rain and the memory of receiving the wound whose scars he carried there. _I promised to explain shoulder surgery, too,_ he reflected wryly. _This is shaping up to be a very educational evening, I don’t doubt._

“You mean what happened with my friend Jack, don’t you?” he asked. “We didn’t speak to each other for eight years. In fact, the only person I ever talked to from before what happened was his wife, Sara, because she insisted on staying in touch. We saw each other a few times, exchanged letters once or twice a year. She and Jack only remained married for a few years themselves after the war, though they ended their marriage for other reasons. Sara was the only one out of the four of us who still tried to be everyone’s friend. She still talked to Lisa, too, I know.” The only person who hadn’t been talking to anyone was Jack, after he and Sara divorced. “I kept track of what Jack was doing, at least when I could get the information. Even if I couldn’t be there with him, I had to know that he was all right. That was something I just couldn’t let go of.”

“I can understand that. Obviously, something else happened, though, if you’ve been expecting him to come here.”

The colonel nodded, fiddling with a loose thread on one of the cushions. “Something did. Jack was one of the very few people on my world who was involved with our stargate. I didn’t become aware of its existence until a couple of years after he did, when my team and I were put in a position to defend our world should someone such as the Goa’uld choose to invade using the gate. Think of us as backup, because that’s exactly what we were, while Jack and his people were directly involved with my world’s use of the gate, and had been offworld. I hadn’t.”

While helping to put things in order before the storm, Cromwell had used the brief respite from discussion to think about exactly how much he dared tell Tesni regarding Earth and its use of its own stargate. Not that he knew all that much himself, but what he did know he’d kept secret, save for the very small bit of information he’d given her on his first day in Llanavon, before discovering that the Goa’uld menaced her world too. But he trusted Tesni. To some extent, he had to. Like Cadogan, and the rest of the _cadlywydd’s_ close family, she knew full well that he was not from any of the Five Worlds. Unlike her uncle, however, Tesni was a far less likely target to be captured and interrogated by Bel or his minions, who from what he could gather seemed to pay little mind to who was who in the hierarchy of the human rebels. Furthermore, even if that unlikely event were to happen, no Goa’uld would suspect her of having information regarding anything that lay beyond Bel’s own domain. Only Cadogan, as Sabar’s host, or possibly some of the other Tok’ra and their hosts, were likely to be in much danger of that.

And unlike the other members of her family, only Tesni was in a position where an argument could be made that she perhaps needed to know more about him than she did. She might well find out more eventually anyway, if he continued to spend nights in her bed, or she in his. While he hadn’t had one in recent weeks, the colonel knew he was still prone to the same kinds of nightmares that had plagued him throughout his marriage to Lisa, and since that time as well. Upon having read some of the more graphic excerpts of reports from SG teams, especially SG-1, once he’d been brought into knowledge of the program, new elements had occasionally found their way from his own envisioning of those events into his dreams. He also knew that while he didn’t always verbalize what he experienced in dreams while moving through that boundary land separating sleep from wakefulness, he’d already done so tonight, leading to this very conversation. It had happened often enough to have caused Lisa to ask questions on occasion too, back when he’d been with her. And the conversation they’d just been having had addressed the issue of secrets unshared between himself and Lisa, and the wedge it had driven between them, especially when she knew just enough to know that something troubled him, and was not permitted to know more. He’d be damned if he’d allow the same thing to repeat itself unnecessarily.

He would always carry the knowledge of things he could never, and would never share. That went without saying. He’d done so for more than two decades already. But his own personal story impinged directly on Tesni’s life, and he wondered whether he had the right to remain as much of a mystery to her as he knew he surely must be, at least in the matter of his origins and his past, if he intended to continue in the relationship they had embarked upon. At least Lisa had known who he was and where he came from. It was what he did when he was away from her that was shrouded in secrecy, and she’d known from the beginning to expect that. With Tesni, things were reversed. She still knew next to nothing about his life before his arrival on her world, but she was as involved as he was in the activities of the _Am Rhyddid_ , and privy to whatever details he cared to share about his personal experiences in its service. Cadogan had placed him under no oath of secrecy with regard to her; he was free to use his own judgment. He endeavored now to use that same judgment to decide whether sharing with her information about his own world and its situation regarding the Goa’uld constituted an unacceptable risk.

He decided that it did not, as long as the information went no further than Tesni herself. And he already knew that she, like himself, not only could keep a secret but would do so even at the ultimate personal cost, if need be, though such a situation was highly unlikely to occur. She already had enough secrets that would need keeping anyway, however, should she ever find herself in that situation, so one more was of little consequence.

She was watching his face, waiting patiently for him to continue. “Tesni, I’ll tell you a bit about my world, but you can’t tell any of this to anyone else. Not even Cadogan. All right?”

“Not even my uncle?”

Cromwell shook his head. “It’s just too dangerous. After the malfunction that sent me here, my world may be more vulnerable to the Goa’uld than before, and I don’t want to risk anyone knowing that who might be a target for capture and interrogation by them. Even though I know your uncle and Sabar would never willingly give up any of their knowledge, I don’t know that the Goa’uld might not have a method of getting it anyway. I’m willing to tell you, because I don’t think you’re in any real danger of them doing that to you, just as I’m probably not. If Bel or his Jaffa got hold of you or me, most likely they’d just shoot us. But Cadogan is a different story.”

Tesni pursed her lips. “That makes sense.” She lifted the cider jug and gestured toward his cup. “More?”

He nodded. “Thank you.” As she poured, he began to explain his origins. “My world is called Earth, and as far as I can tell, it’s the same place Bel took your ancestors from. In fact, you and I probably share some ancestry from before that time, since I’m pretty sure the Pridani were taken from the same island where my grandmother was born. That language I first spoke with you when I arrived here is called Cymraeg, and it’s the one her own ancestors spoke. She taught it to me when I was growing up. I think the reason it’s so similar to Pridanic is because both languages developed from a single earlier language that your ancestors probably spoke when Bel brought them here. Your people and mine are blood kin.”

The colonel had debated exactly how much to tell her about that, but at this point, he reasoned, she deserved to know the entire truth. The Pridani could only be the same people as the Briteni, among whom the ancestors of the modern-day Cymri or Welsh were one tribe of many. Tesni had told him that her people had been on Tir Awyr for roughly sixty generations, give or take — in her own maternal line, it was sixty-six. Counting back those sixty-odd generations led to a point where the two of them might well be descended from some of the same individuals, via his father's family at least. His _naina_ Cromwell had been of Welsh descent, born in Wales, and he knew the same was true of at least one of his paternal grandfather's grandmothers. In fact most of his ancestry originated in the British Isles, that he knew of, on both sides of his family, and although he was well aware how many other peoples had occupied the lands of his ancestors and bred their own genes into the pool from which his were drawn, the fact remained that he and the Pridani almost certainly shared descent from the same ancient tribe or tribes.

“Then not only are you Pridanic by adoption, but you’re one of us by descent, too?” Tesni asked, setting the jug down again. “And you come from the _byd cyntaf_ — the first world?”

“Exactly.”

He could see understanding dawn. Her next words confirmed it. “So my ancestors came from your world, and your grandmother’s people are descended from the ones who remained behind. And they were once the same people, all speaking that older tongue?”

Once again, he was struck by her intelligence. These were undoubtedly novel concepts to her, yet she was able to accept them and then put them to use in the space between one breath and the next. He wondered exactly how far out of his league he might be playing right now. “It’s the only explanation I can think of,” he agreed.

“That’s amazing. But why, then, have your people not visited here before this? How do they not even know about the stargates, or the Goa’uld?”

 _I’d be wondering the same thing, in her shoes._ “Tesni, the people of my world once buried their stargate and cut themselves off from all other worlds, in order to be safe from the Goa'uld. We forgot about it for many generations, and have only recently rediscovered it and begun to use it again, in just the past few years. That’s why so few there are even aware of it.” He explained briefly what he knew about the accidental discovery of the Stargate, buried under the dusty soil at Giza, and the research to discern its function, forgotten in the intervening centuries. “What I don’t understand is how your ancestors were brought here, when the Giza gate was buried much longer ago than your history can account for. Apparently Earth has a second gate, but I was under the impression it was buried then too, beneath the ice at my world’s southern pole.”

Tesni appeared to think for a moment. “A lot of what we know from those early days is regarded more as legend than as pure history, but the tales mention the use of great ships that sailed through space, as well as the use of the _chappa'ai_.”

Cromwell nodded. “That’s probably it, then. It looks to me like a lot of plants and animals from Earth came here with you, so the use of ships makes sense. That might even explain a few of the weirder legends told on Earth, too. They’d be stories passed down by the descendants of those who stayed behind.” He sipped at his cider. “Anyway, once we got the gate working, we immediately discovered the Goa’uld, and what they did to humans. We’ve been fighting them since we first encountered them, and though I’ve never seen one in person, my friend Jack has, because he’s been directly involved in that fight.”

“But you hadn’t fought them yourself, before coming here?”

“No.” The colonel shook his head. “Jack led the first group of people from Earth to go through the gate after it was reactivated, and they ran into the Goa’uld right away. I found out about this much later, when my team and I took the job serving as a secondary line of defense against possible incursions by the Goa’uld or any other hostiles via the stargate. Even now, fewer than five hundred people on Earth are aware of even the existence of the gate, and until then, I wasn’t among them. As far as I know, Jack wasn’t made aware then that I had any connection to or knowledge of what his people were doing with the gate. But then something went wrong, and the facility housing it lost contact with the rest of the world. My team was sent in to find out what had happened and do what we could resolve the problem, and Jack and I saw each other that day for the first time in over eight years. He wasn’t happy to see me, I can tell you that much.”

“Why?” Tesni’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me that even after eight years —”

“He still blamed me for letting him get captured.” Cromwell held up a hand. “I know, I know. Not entirely my fault.”

By the time he and his team had transferred stateside and taken the assignment to back up the SGC, Cromwell had accepted that there hadn’t really been anything else he could have done that day in Iraq that wouldn’t have probably gotten someone else killed. O’Neill clearly hadn’t come to the same conclusion, though; not that Cromwell necessarily had expected him to. And no amount of acceptance or rationalization assuaged the guilt he still felt over what had happened to Jack at the hands of the Iraqis. Some things went deeper than any logic could reach.

“It didn’t matter,” he told her. “The whole reason I’d taken this job in the first place was because I knew he was there, and if there was going to be trouble, I wanted to be in a position to do something about it. I wasn’t about to let him get into a bad situation again if I could do anything about it. I knew he still blamed me. If he didn’t, he’d have gotten in touch; I was easier to find than he was. So the only thing I could do that had a prayer of making things right was to be there if something went wrong, and get him clear of it this time. I figured that since someone had to be in that position anyway, it should be me.”

Tesni was shaking her head. “Neirin, I don’t know who sounds more stubborn, you or your friend.”

He had to laugh at the way she said it. “We’ve never figured that out ourselves, either. I’d say we’re probably about even.” He sobered, thinking of what else had transpired in the course of dealing with the crisis that had brought him face to face with Jack after so many years. “Anyway, the people in charge of my planet’s stargate had been sending small teams of people out to different planets on the stargate network, exploring the worlds they found, looking for resources and allies. They’d managed to send a team to a very dangerous planet.” The colonel paused, wondering how he was going to explain what had happened. “Tesni, how much do you know about gravity?” Pridanic contained a native word for the concept, which indicated that some knowledge existed, but he wasn’t at all sure how much.

“I know it holds things to the surface of a planet, and keeps planets in orbit about their suns. And according to Sabar and my uncle, it can differ in strength from place to place — there is less of it on our moons, for example, than here on Tir Awyr.” She gave him a puzzled look.

Cromwell might have been more surprised at her response were it not for the presence of the Tok’bel leader among Tesni’s circle of family and friends. Surely being as close to her uncle and his symbiote as she was had afforded her the opportunity to learn things that might not be included in the general body of common knowledge available to the average individual on the Celtic worlds, he realized. “All right then, what do you know about stars and what happens to them at the end of their lifetimes? Did Sabar or Cadogan ever explain that to you?”

She nodded. “When I was old enough to realize that my uncle and his symbiote knew so much about the universe beyond this one small world, I became very curious and began asking questions about how things worked. I suppose I’ve never really stopped.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “Stars…what happens depends on their size. They become very large and red, then the ones with not much mass remaining eventually become very tiny, dense and white before burning out and growing cold. The more mass the star has left, the more dense it will become.”

 _Good, good…_ “Exactly. Not only that, but its gravity increases in relation to its density. If it is massive enough, and becomes dense enough, the gravity becomes so great that nothing can escape it, not even light itself. We call this a black hole.”

Another nod. “Sabar told me about them.”

This was going to be easier than he’d thought. “In a gravity field like that, time slows down significantly. There is a stargate on a planet in a system whose primary star has a black hole companion. The people on my world had sent a team to this planet, probably without realizing there was a black hole nearby. When the team discovered it and tried to return, the gate on that world somehow became locked to the gate on our own, and no one could get it to shut down. Time on the other planet was passing much more slowly than on Earth, and somehow the gravitational effect of the black hole passed through the stargate and began to affect the area around it on Earth, causing time to slow there as well. The military base housing our stargate lost contact with the outside world as a result, and my team was sent in to find out what had happened. At first we suspected a Goa’uld attack of some sort, but once inside, we encountered my friend Jack. That’s when we found out what was really happening.”

“What did you do?”

Cromwell picked up the poker and adjusted the position of one of the logs on the fire. The flames blazed up, sending a rush of light and warmth into the room before settling down again. “Well, the team that had been sent to that other planet… there was no way to get them back home again. Jack didn’t want to leave those people on that other world, but there wasn’t any choice. It was kind of like the situation I’d been in, when I thought he’d been killed: no real viable options. I’ll be honest; I pointed that out to him, and whether it was that or something else, he did start acting differently.”

Laying down the poker, he turned once more to face Tesni. “He didn’t say anything — he didn’t have to — but I could tell he’d decided to forgive me, and that I was still his friend. By that time, someone had come up with a way to unlock our stargate from the one on the other planet, by setting an explosive device to direct energy into it that would hopefully cause the connection to jump to somewhere else. Jack and I were setting it up when something went wrong and I fell through our gate. The last thing I saw was Jack trying to catch me. The bomb we set must have gone off not long afterward, because the connection did skip, and I ended up here. I’ve been hoping ever since then that he’s all right and that someone there knows what planet the connection skipped to…” Cromwell trailed off at the look on her face.

If he still felt a shiver of horror at the memory of those last seconds in the SGC’s gate room, or at the thought of what might have transpired there after his fall, it had its match in Tesni’s expression. Her face, normally fair, was pale; her eyes, huge. “I had no idea, Neirin.” She took his hand yet again, tracing the long bones of its back with her thumb. “After this long… no wonder you’ve worried.”

He drew a deep breath to steady himself. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything’s wrong on their end. There could be damage to the gate, or to the facility housing it, but there might not be. Jack might not have gotten away before the blast, but he might have. There were people there who would have done their best to see that he did. It’s entirely possible that everything’s fine on their end but that their equipment didn’t tell them where the wormhole skipped to, and if for whatever reason they had to shut it down before they could send anyone through to check, then they have no way of knowing where I am.”

Pausing, he stared at the fire before speaking again, this time much more softly. “Of course, that assumes they’d even think to look for me. Given the situation, I know I’m lucky to have survived. If no one on my world suspects that was possible, that’s as reasonable an explanation as any for why no one’s come looking for me.” His voice grew even quieter. “It would also mean I’ve been declared dead, and that Lisa is legally a widow. In that case, I hope she’ll have found someone who can give her the things I couldn’t, because she deserves that.”

Tesni shifted closer, putting her other arm around him He followed suit, and they sat holding each other, watching the flames spark and dance. “I suppose it makes sense, that your people might assume you died,” she agreed after a moment. “So if no one’s coming for you, for whatever reason, what are your plans?”

He sighed. “I don’t really have too many options. I don’t know the address for my world, and I can’t ask your uncle or any of the other Tok’ra, because of the risk I already explained to you. If what happened did damage my world’s ability to defend itself against intruders coming through the stargate, then I don’t want that possibility to be known. Obviously I trust Sabar, and I trust Cadogan, but the Tok’bel probably don’t have the time or resources to do much for Earth if there’s a problem there, and if something were to happen so that Bel or any other Goa’uld learned that my world might be more vulnerable than before, it would be a disaster. Remember how I said almost no one on my world is even aware of the Goa’uld?”

Her eyes went wide again. “I see what you mean. They wouldn’t even know what was happening until it was too late, would they?”

He nodded. “Exactly. And we’d already been attacked once, before this happened. We were lucky that time; we managed to defend ourselves, but barely.”

“How could you do that, and have people still not be aware of what happened?”

“It’s a long story, Tesni. Two Goa’uld ships were destroyed in orbit — in fact, Jack led the team that did it — and people were told a lie about the lights they saw in the sky that night. I saw them myself, but even I didn’t have a clue what I’d really witnessed until a couple of months later, when I was also told about the stargate.”

She shook her head. “I can’t imagine what it must be like there.”

“It’s actually a nice place, for the most part. You’d probably like it. But my being able to go home isn’t worth exposing everyone there to another possible threat, so I’m not willing to take the chance. If I can find out the address on my own somehow, that’s one thing, because then I can try to dial it and see if it connects. At least then I’d know whether the stargate on my world still worked. I could maybe communicate, or even go there at least long enough to find out what happened, whether or not I stayed. Or if someone does come looking for me, then I’ll know it’s safe. But if neither of those things happens, then it’s a good bet that I’m never going home at all.”

She looked at him oddly. “I notice you said ‘whether or not’ you stayed. Does that mean you might go, and decide not to stay there?”

He struggled for an answer, trying to reconcile the two desires of his heart. “Tesni, please understand that I’m very far from home right now. I don’t mean that Tir Awyr hasn’t become home in its own right, because it has. But still… I have commitments. A duty to my own world. I can’t help thinking about that.”

“I see.” She stared at the fire again. “Of course you want to go home. I’m sure I’d want to as well, if I were you.”

 _Damn it, that wasn’t what I was trying for._ “Tesni…”

She shook her head, still staring at the fire. “No, I do understand, Neirin. I’ll be honest, and tell you this: I’m just selfish enough to wish I could keep you here for my own sake. But you never meant to be here at all, and if you could go home, then it wouldn’t be right for me to ask you to stay here. Besides, there are people there who have loved you for far longer than I have.”

“Tesni.”

She turned slowly to look at him. He could see pain in her eyes, even as she did her best to hide it, and he was consumed with a desire to make it go away. “ _Cariad_ , I said I couldn’t help thinking about my world, and about going back there. It doesn’t mean I will, because I probably won’t get the chance. And even if I do get that chance… what makes you think I’d want to stay there, if it meant I’d have to leave you here?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“No. Not now.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Two months ago, maybe. Three months ago, probably. But it’s a little late for that now.” He kissed her, gently at first, then again, more deeply, before drawing back to look into her eyes again. “I hadn’t planned on what’s developed between us, but of course it isn’t the kind of thing anyone plans. It just happens, and I’d be an idiot to throw it away.” His voice grew husky. “I love you. It scares me a little to realize just how much. But I already walked away once from someone I loved, and I’m not going to do it a second time. I learn from my mistakes, at least usually.” Smiling then, he asked, “What did you think I was talking about when I asked if you still felt you could trust me?”

She was confused; he could see it in her face. “So… you’re saying that if you did get the chance to go back, you wouldn’t? Because of…” She trailed off, gesturing helplessly between them.

“I’m saying that I wouldn’t go back and stay. Not unless you wanted to come with me.” He gave her a hopeful look, though he was pretty sure of what she’d say next.

She shook her head. “Neirin, you aren’t the only one with duties and obligations.”

It was no more than he’d expected of her, really. “I know that. The only way that taking you with me would work would be if we could somehow divide our time between both places, then. It might be possible; if it were, would that suit you?”

She considered the question. “Yes… I could see doing that. But what if it turned out not to be possible? If you had to make a choice — one place or the other, only?”

 _That’s where it would get difficult, wouldn’t it, Cromwell? But Tesni has lifelong obligations she was born to, and you’ve already given the Air Force twenty-four years of your life. Twenty-five, counting the time you’ve spent right here, while everyone back home considers you missing or worse. You could’ve retired at any time after twenty, so what’s to keep you from doing it if they make you choose, and just coming back here? You can probably finagle one more gate trip out of Jack, or if that isn’t possible, out of Hammond. It isn’t as if you’d be bored, because the_ Am Rhyddid _will keep you as busy as you want to be._

Even as he formed the thoughts coherently, he knew he’d already made his decision. “If I have to choose, then my choice is to be where you are. I’m not obligated to continue on, as far as my military duty on Earth goes. I could have retired five years ago, though right now I’m glad I didn’t. But there’s no reason why I couldn’t do that, and then come back and continue what I’m doing with the _Am Rhyddid_ , for as long as I’m useful to the Pridani in my current capacity. After that… well, there will be other things I can do here, certainly. I can think of far worse places to spend the rest of my life, and there’s no one I’d rather spend it with than you.”

“You don’t have family on Earth whom you would miss?”

“Not really. A few cousins, that’s all. No one I’m particularly close to.” At her look of concern, he added, “It’s a long story. My family wasn’t very large to begin with, and most of them died while I was still pretty young.”

“No children? You and Lisa didn’t —”

He shook his head. “No, we didn’t have any children.”

“So that just leaves your friend Jack, then, if he’s all right.”

Cromwell was touched to think she would make that her concern. “Tesni, like it or not, Jack’s been doing well enough without me for years. If he made it out of range before that bomb exploded, he’ll manage just fine without me still, I’m sure of it. And we’d likely see him anyway, once Earth knew about Tir Awyr and the rest of the Five Worlds. His job involves gate travel, and looking for resources and allies for Earth. If everything’s all right on Earth, and with the people responsible for its stargate, there’s every chance my world and yours would become allies. We share a common enemy in the Goa’uld, and the Five Worlds have resources that Earth could probably make use of. Believe me, there’d be trade.” He grinned. “In fact, that’s part of why I think there might not be a real problem with you and me being able to divide our time between Earth and here if I do get to go back, because the first thing I’d do is request a transfer to Stargate Command. I’m already in the know and I’ve got experience from being here, so I think my request would have a pretty good chance of being accepted. And you could easily wind up being the person who serves as a liaison between Tir Awyr and Earth.”

“You’ve given this some thought, haven’t you?” She eyed him quizzically.

A shrug. “Maybe a little.” _Whether I realized I was thinking about it at the time or not._

“Neirin?”

“Hmmm?”

A smile played about her lips. “Did you really mean to offer me your lifetime just now?’

He laughed. “I did. You might get thirty years or so out of me, if we’re both lucky. They’re yours if you want them.” He kissed her. “You have my heart already, and you know it. You deserve to have whatever else I can give you along with it.”

Her smile blossomed fully. “Of course I want them.”

Cromwell took her hands in his. “Then let me ask you this: you’ve told me how divorce works among the Pridani, but how does one go about getting married?”

“It’s really quite simple, but your life has already been complicated in that area, _cariad_.” Tesni cocked her head, still smiling. “Are you sure you wish to wed a second time?”

He kissed her again. “I just promised you the rest of my life, and to someone like me, that means a marriage. So unless you have some pressing reason not to, I’d like to make it a formal arrangement. Assuming I ever do get back to Earth, it might not be considered fully binding there, depending on my status, but a marriage that is binding here will signal my intent to anyone there. Besides, I live here now, and I’m committed to you in the fullest sense, make no mistake.”

Tesni laughed. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you? All right then; I accept.”

The colonel grinned. “So, how do we formalize this? And when?”

Her face grew thoughtful. “You own no property on any of the Five Worlds, and few goods. I have potential claim upon the seat of Bennaeth Bod, by birthright, but legally you are of my clan, which keeps it simple…”

He stopped her. “What do you mean, I’m of your clan? I’m not even from around here, remember?”

The musical laugh again. “I forget sometimes that you might not recognize things that seem obvious to us. Do you remember the cup that was passed around the table when the family dined together at Bennaeth Bod, at last autumn’s harvest festival? The one that everyone drank from?”

Cromwell did remember. A cup of elderberry wine had made its way around the dinner table, beginning with Cadogan at the table’s head, and everyone present had drunk from it before passing it on. It had come to him second-to-last, where he’d sat between Tesni and Ris, and having been given no indication to the contrary he’d followed suit as Ris gave the cup to him, before passing it on to Tesni. There had been no solemnity and no ceremony, only smiles as the cup was passed amid normal conversation, and he’d thought it little more than some quaint family tradition at the time, in which he’d been invited to share as a guest. Now he wondered precisely what had been going on.

“Maybe you’d better explain,” he suggested.

“The cup is passed that way between members of a family, and only between them. That Ris was instructed beforehand to give it to you, rather than passing it directly on to me, was intended to formalize what had already been decided more than a month earlier by my uncle, my brother and myself: your adoption into our family and clan.”

The colonel stared at her. “Why?”

She touched his face. “Neirin, you came to us kinless and clanless, at least in any terms recognizable by the Pridani or our sister tribes. Among us, to be kinless and clanless is a status reserved only for those who have committed crimes so severe that their own kin and clan have made them outcast. You’ve done no such thing, and in fact had risked your own life almost as soon as you arrived to safeguard the lives of my niece and my nephew. That alone would have obligated us to you and given you a claim upon us, but when you later made it clear that you wished to be regarded as one of our tribe, it meant that a kindred and clan had to claim you for their own. Clan Branoc would have done so in any case, and so it was a small matter for us to agree — Cadogan and Idris as co-chiefs, and myself as their first heir.” She chuckled. “Little did I know that I was making my own life easier, but there it is. Marrying within the clan is a simpler contract than marrying outside of it.”

 _Good grief._ Cromwell found himself searching for the words to frame a response. “I had no idea, Tesni. I’m honored to have been made a member of your family, but no one ever explained any of that to me.”

“Well, now you know. In legal standing, your status in relation to most of us is that of a cousin. Having no documented common descent closer than five generations — obviously — you and I are free to marry, and this will change some of those relationships, making Idris your brother under our laws, Anwen your sister, Ris and Tegwyn your niece and nephew, and Cadogan your uncle, just as he is mine.” She took a sip from her cider cup. “Pridanic marriages come in varying forms, depending on intent, prior marital obligations and on property, along with rank in the case of clan leaders and their direct heirs. Our intent is permanence, which is of the first degree. By our laws you are divorced from your first wife, so again, our bond would be of the first degree. My birth and your rank as _filwriad_ make ours a marriage of equals in all but property, and because your arm along with my own protects any property to which I might hold claim or be bound to safeguard, your own lack of property is superseded by this fact.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said this was simple.”

“For you and me, it is. All that is required is that I address you as husband, or you address me as wife, before any three or more witnesses. The one so addressed then kisses the one who has spoken, and if we wish, we may repeat this with roles reversed, although it is not strictly necessary. As of that moment, we are married in the eyes of all who witnessed this, and anyone with whom they may later speak. The contract is the business of the _cyfreithwyr_ who deal in our laws, and my brother will arrange all that for us; we only need sign it and that can happen later.”

“Thirty seconds of time and thirty pages of paperwork, is that it?” Cromwell chuckled.

Tesni grinned at him. “Perhaps not thirty, but you’re more or less correct. When do you want to do the simple part?”

 “Any time you like. Lady’s prerogative.” He kissed her hand.

“Well, midsummer is a day when many traditionally wed,” she began.

The colonel blinked. “Two days from now?”

“Do your customs require a longer wait, Neirin?”

“No…” He thought for a second. _I already promised my life, and she accepted. Our intentions are clear, so why wait?_ “Midsummer is fine.”

 

 


	32. Holding Pattern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( **Author’s Note:** The first scene in this chapter is not completely my own work. It is drawn from the story “So Builds An Absolute Trust” by Flora and Gallagater, to whom I am forever indebted. What I have written here is my speculation on the way that Jack would recall events of the climax of that story, especially if he were to dream about them years later. The prose here is mine, but complete and total credit for the plot and concept of this scene belong to Flora and Gallagater, whose own work forms so much of the basis of my own characterization of Frank Cromwell and his friendship with Jack O'Neill.)

The truck bounced its way along the rutted road as pain lanced up his arms from the manacles about his wrists. It was far worse in his left, the one with the swollen elbow. The Sandinista _coronel_ , Vicente, had calmly ordered his goons to dislocate it during one of his twisted little Q & A sessions back at the village jail. Between that and the fact that the manacles chafed against the cigarette burns on his wrists — another souvenir of his sessions with Vicente — Jack almost wished he could pass out again, falling back into a peaceful oblivion where the pain couldn’t reach him.

Yeah, fat chance. Besides, then he’d miss this scenic ride through the beautiful Nicaraguan countryside. It was the season for boots, lined up in all their glory along the sides of the truck where a row of Sandinista soldiers occupied the bench along each side of the rattling truck bed. The chain to which his wrists were manacled was short, terminating at a bolt driven into the center of the wooden bed, and severely limited the positions available to him. But if he craned his neck just so, he could see past the boots, up the uniformed legs and bodies to the sneering faces of the Sandinistas as they watched him shift uncomfortably with each bounce the truck made. Beyond the faces was the canvas tarp covering the top of the truck, blotting out the sky, or more accurately the jungle they were almost assuredly passing through.

Another jolt rocked the truck as it hit a pothole, this one bouncing him wildly against the wooden planks. Only the chain kept him tethered to the floor, like a paddleball. He landed with his swollen elbow pinned between the truck bed and his body, clenching his jaw to keep from crying out, helpless to stop the tears of pain that streamed from his eyes. The guards laughed, commenting among themselves in Spanish. Jack heard and understood every word. He willed himself to maintain control, breathing deeply and rhythmically until the throbbing in his elbow backed off down the scale from ‘thermonuclear’ to an intensity somewhere slightly north of ‘dull roar’. Okay, maybe not so slightly. But it was bearable, if not by much.

The effort cost him, however, and he soon found himself poised once again at the edge of consciousness, his thoughts drifting. He and Frank had harbored misgivings about this mission, but they’d tucked them away and sworn they’d get through it successfully and in one piece, no matter what. Just like always. Of course, that was before a knife fight in the small cantina where they’d been waiting for their contact turned the entire trip into one of the biggest Charlie Foxtrots this side of… well, he wasn’t sure what, exactly. His muddled thoughts wouldn’t quite focus. All he knew was that Frank had gone down in the middle of it, knifed in the side, with far too many people between them. The last thing Jack remembered from the fight was trying to work his way through the crowd to get to Frank, before something impacted with the back of his own skull and everything had gone black. He’d woken up in a cell, whereupon had commenced several days’ worth of fun and games at the hands of first the local constabulary and then the Sandinistas.

Now he was on his way to Managua, where undoubtedly more good times awaited him. Jack’s thoughts whirled, a sick spinning that brought images churning through his mind almost too quickly to grasp before each was replaced by the next. Sara, pregnant with their first child — who might well be born fatherless, if the Sandinistas had their way. Vicente, gloating at the pain inflicted by his lackeys as Jack had sat bound to a chair in the jailer’s office. Frank, bleeding in the cantina, his face stark white with shock. Was Frank even still alive? He had to be. Someone had to take care of Sara and the baby if Jack himself didn’t make it back. But more than that, a tiny hope still flickered, ever since a hastily whispered message from the limping young man responsible for cleaning slop buckets in the jail had alerted him that the other _Americano_ was planning a rescue.

If Frank was going to pull off a rescue, thought Jack, he’d better hurry the hell up.

Without warning, the truck shuddered to a halt. The soldiers muttered to each other, and a small party of them left the truck to investigate. He heard gunfire, and the sound of bullets striking the exterior of the vehicle. The remaining soldiers bailed out, leaving him alone, still chained to the floor. A bullet pierced the canvas top just above the solid side of the truck bed, and Jack flattened himself against the rough planks, praying for survival and hoping this was the rescue he’d been promised.

There were shouts and curses from outside, amid the chatter of automatic weapons firing and the occasional scream. After a minute, Jack noticed an acrid smell permeating the air surrounding him. Gasoline? Great, someone had hit a fuel line on one of the trucks. He wondered how much longer he had before the entire convoy went up in flames with him still chained in place. _Nothing like going out in a blaze of glory,_ he mused cynically, _but it would have been nice to at least see my kid once first._

No sooner had the thought formed than the truck rocked again, and a body heaved its way into the back to fall heavily to the floorboards next to him. There was the sound of rough breathing, strained as though whoever had landed beside him was in pain. _Misery, meet company._ Two more jolts heralded additional arrivals, and suddenly the space around him seemed crowded. Jack felt motion against him and forced his eyes — well, the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut, anyway — open as a figure rose up at his side, silhouetted against the light from the open flap at the end of the truck before bending close enough for him to make out its face.

 _Frank._ Either he was hallucinating, or his chances of making it out of here had just gotten a hell of a lot better. Except Frank didn’t look so hot himself. He was pale, and panting, and he moved with the stiff awkwardness of someone who was wounded and in dire need of medical attention. Jack was pretty sure he wouldn’t hallucinate his best friend looking like that.

But Frank was alive, he was here, and he’d brought help with him. Probably the contra group they’d been sent to train. It looked like maybe — just maybe — they’d both be going home after all.

 

The warble of the phone woke him. O’Neill fumbled for it, blinking. There was far too much light in the room for 0500. _Why the hell didn’t the alarm clock go off?_ Between dreams and oversleeping, he wished he hadn’t even gone to bed.

Grabbing the receiver, he clapped it to his ear. “O’Neill.”

“Jack?” Daniel’s voice carried a note of concern. “Is everything okay?”

O’Neill disentangled himself from the sheets, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Yeah. Damn alarm didn’t go off when it was supposed to.” He scowled at the offending appliance, whose LED display read 7:10. “I’m on my way now.” _See, this is why I wasn’t going to try to sleep…_

“The general says don’t bother rushing, Jack. They queried the MALP again, and it’s still storming pretty hard around P2A-870’s Stargate. You can take your time; we won’t be going anywhere for at least a couple of hours.”

 

***

 

Daniel hung up the phone. Turning, he found Samantha Carter watching him, with Teal’c standing behind her. “He said his alarm clock didn’t go off,” the archaeologist explained. “I told him… well, I’m sure you heard what I told him.” His teammates nodded. “Which probably means he’ll be here in half an hour.”

He stretched, crossing his lab to where the coffee maker burbled happily as it finished brewing a fresh pot. Grabbing a mug emblazoned with the motto ‘Field Archaeologists Do It In The Dust’, he filled it with the strong dark liquid. Holding up the carafe, he gestured toward the mug in Carter’s hand, this one bearing the Air Force logo. “Refill?”

“Please.” She smiled in thanks as he topped up her mug. “At least General Hammond wasn’t upset over the colonel being late. Not that I really expected him to be.”

“O’Neill is obviously under stress,” intoned Teal’c.

“Can you blame him?” asked Daniel.

“Of course not,” said the big Jaffa, inclining his head slightly. “Concern for a brother in arms is not only understandable; it is a noble emotion.”

“I think it’s a little more than just that, Teal’c,” cautioned Carter. “From what he’s told us, Cromwell was his closest friend for a long time. This has got to be eating him alive. He’s never been very good at waiting for things, at least from what I’ve seen.”

“From what I’ve seen, either,” Daniel agreed. He took a sip of coffee and picked up a notebook from the long table running down the center of the room. “I did spend some time last night thinking about the people we encountered on P2A-870, though. Their language is definitely Brythonic, of course, and sounds to my ears very much like an obscure dialect of Welsh. Since Colonel Cromwell speaks Welsh himself, my guess is that he should be able to communicate with them to at least some extent. In fact, his spoken Welsh is probably a lot better than mine, considering that it was his second language growing up. Jack did say that Cromwell seems fluent in it. ”

He flipped through the pages of the notebook. “What’s weird is the fact that Rhodri seemed to recognize Teal’c as Jaffa, and yet didn’t seem bothered by his presence, nor surprised at the concept of rebel Jaffa. The word he used was _llestr anfodlon,_ which translates as ‘reluctant vessel’ or at least very close. It seems to me that the Pridani must have encountered other Jaffa who have turned against the Goa’uld, for them to be so accepting of the idea.”

“'Reluctant vessel’… Sounds poetic,” Carter commented.

“The Celtic languages tend in that direction,” said Daniel.

“It is an apt description,” said Teal’c. “To fight against the Goa’uld and yet to know that one is dependent upon their larvae for one’s own health and survival does make each Jaffa who opposes them a reluctant vessel for his or her _prim’ta_.”

There was a beep, and Carter looked at her watch. “I’m heading back to my lab,” she said. “I set up some more model scenarios of wormhole behavior this morning when I got in, and I want to take a look at the latest results.”

Daniel cocked an eyebrow at her. “What time did you get in?”

“About 0530, why?”

The archaeologist shook his head. “No reason. I think I got here just before you did.”

“So you couldn’t sleep either?”

“Too much to do. The stuff SG-6 and I brought back from that dig on P3X-808, and now the Pridani…”

Carter grinned. “Well, then at least you can’t give me a hard time about my computer models of wormhole behavior.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Sam,” Daniel assured her. “See you at the next MALP check-in?”

The captain nodded. “I’ll be there.” She turned to Teal’c. “Want to come and take a look with me? This goes back to what I was trying to do on the whiteboard, when we were all up top in the temporary command post.”

Teal’c nodded solemnly. “Indeed.”

Left alone with his thoughts, Daniel sat down at his desk, the notebook open before him. He’d jotted down various things during his conversation with Rhodri, and was still running elements of that conversation through his head. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something obvious, but he had no clue what it might be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	33. Midsummer's Eve

Cromwell rubbed his nose against his rolled-up sleeve, resisting the urge to sneeze as flour wafted into the air on a breeze from the open window. With the midsummer celebration slated to occur the next day, every available pair of hands in Llanavon was busy preparing whatever items of food and drink could be made in advance, or readying the communal area where the festivities would take place. Food prep work had overflowed the communal kitchen, spilling out into private homes where bread and other goods were being baked, meat slow-roasted, and vegetables peeled and sliced for cooking on the morrow. He and Tesni had opted to contribute their share of labor to the making of bread, something the colonel had learned to enjoy doing in his _naina_ ’s kitchen as a boy, and were working for the moment in his cottage. It was the last time he would call this dwelling home, for as of the next morning, he would move whatever of his belongings had not already found their way there in recent weeks into Tesni’s slightly larger cottage. There were loaves already baking in her hearth at the moment, though, so they were making the next batch here.

“Tesni, how much do you know about what Sabar and your uncle do when they’re off-world? Specifically, when they’re not on any of the Five Worlds?” he asked, turning a large lump of dough out of a bowl onto a well-floured piece of smooth leather and beginning to work it with his hands.

Across the table, his bride-to-be looked up from the similar portion of dough she was kneading. “Well, I know they spend time at Caer Ynys with the other Tok’bel,” Tesni began thoughtfully. “There’s quite a bit of planning that goes on there, of course, and Sabar receives reports from the operatives he has throughout Bel’s domain.”

Cromwell nodded. He was aware of the existence of the Tok’bel’s base of operations at Caer Ynys, though he’d never been there. It also hadn’t escaped him that he heard the word ‘Tok’bel’ used far more often than ‘Tok’ra’ among the _Am Rhyddid_ when referring to the _cadlywydd_ ’s symbiote and his companions, although he did hear both terms. Whether this was a normal thing for groups of Tok’ra engaged in a specific cause or an aberration from standard nomenclature was something he couldn’t quite figure out at first, but as time went on, he’d begun to form the distinct impression that the Tok’bel were in some way quite separate from their brethren. Not in any hostile sense, he was sure, but simply independent of them, or at least largely so. “Do you know whether the Tok’bel ever receive visits from any other Tok’ra who are not directly involved in the rebellion against Bel?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it happens often. I know there are far more Tok’ra than Tok’bel, according to Sabar, but the Tok’bel don’t have frequent contact with them. Perhaps every few years, at most, and that’s more often a matter of Sabar visiting the Tok’ra than the opposite.”

The colonel found this puzzling, even though it confirmed something he’d suspected for some time. “Do you have any idea why this is?” he asked.

Tesni shrugged, sprinkling more flour onto the loaf she was patting into shape. “Sabar says it’s a matter of having different objectives. The Tok’ra work against the Goa’uld in general, largely by stealth, and don’t often get directly involved with subject societies the way the Tok’bel have. But Sabar prefers direct action — he says you can only do so much with standard Tok’ra methods, and since he first found himself with a Pridanic host, he’s been committed to seeing us free of Bel, so that’s been his focus.”

“Have your uncle or Sabar ever mentioned any other human allies recently made by the Tok’ra?” Cromwell felt compelled to ask the question that had been troubling his mind ever since he’d first become acquainted with the Tok’bel leader and his host. On his arrival in Llanavon, he had drawn the symbol he’d been told was unique to Earth on the wooden surface of a table using a wet finger, but Tesni had shown no recognition, indicating that she, at least, had never had contact with anyone from there. After meeting Cadogan and Sabar and realizing that the symbiote belonged to the same race who had recently allied themselves with Earth — this much he knew based on the scant details he’d been provided in a heavily redacted report by order of General West perhaps a month before his encounter with the Stargate — the colonel had initially entertained the thought of telling them where he came from and asking for help getting home. Of course, they’d all been a little busy dealing with the Jaffa incursion at the time, and by the time the dust had settled from that particular bit of action, a tiny alarm bell had already begun to go off in the recesses of his mind that caused him to hold his tongue and continue to assess the situation. He wasn’t certain why, but he’d learned from long experience to trust his instincts, and they’d only steered him wrong once in all that time.

By the time several days had passed, Cromwell was beginning to be glad he’d listened to his gut. He hadn’t exactly spent long hours in conversation with Sabar or any of the other Tok’ra he’d met during his shifts guarding Tir Awyr’s stargate — nor had he wished to — but he’d caught just enough of an exchange between Cadogan, Sabar and Gerlad to make him wonder just exactly what the local Tok’ra group’s relationship was with the Tok’ra known to the SGC.

While answering a call of nature just inside the edge of the woods, he’d unintentionally found himself situated not more than fifteen feet from the _cadlywydd_ and his aide, who were conversing in Pridanic. Cadogan was speaking, rather than Sabar; the _cadlywydd_ ’s voice carried its own normal timbre. “This is exactly the kind of thing the Tok’ra High Council would be furious about,” he said. “Tok’ra openly interdicting the _chappa’ai_ on a dominated world and taking direct, potentially traceable action against a minor System Lord in aid of an outright rebellion, rather than looking for a way to use that System Lord to upset the plans of a larger one… well, Sabar tells me he would be taken to task over this, for certain.”

Cromwell froze in the act of rearranging his clothing. Unwilling to reveal his presence, he nevertheless strained to listen to the conversation. Eavesdropping was far from his normal practice; however, this could be considered the gathering of intelligence in the line of duty to his own world… or at the very least, he might learn something that would help to settle his mind with regard to his own inclination to work with the Pridani themselves, despite whatever reservations he might harbor about their alien allies.

“Then we’re doubly fortunate that the Tok’ra Council aren’t in charge here, aren’t we?” came Gerlad’s voice from behind a screen of bushes as he and the _cadlywydd_ walked the trail that ran through the wood and up the hillside to the compass circle surrounding the stargate.

The response that followed was in Sabar’s voice. {“Assuredly so,”} he said, in Pridanic rather than Tok’ra, which Cromwell knew Gerlad spoke. Presumably, the symbiote’s use of his native tongue the other day had been an artifact of sheer stress and excitement, and Gerlad had responded in it out of deference to his commander’s mental state, the colonel surmised.

Sabar continued. {“While we get no help from them, at least these days they leave us largely alone to do what we came to do. All things considered, it’s a reasonable trade. Though if we ever manage to do something they feel actually furthers their own efforts, or find something they think will do so, you can bet they’ll take far more interest in us. That’s why achieving our objective on our own — just us and the people of the Five Worlds — is so important. It will prove to them…”} At this point, both Gerlad and his commander — commanders, Cromwell amended — had passed beyond earshot, and he missed the rest of what Sabar had been saying.  But what he’d heard was enough to move him to caution, and so he had decided to refrain from any mention of Earth for the time being until he figured out exactly where this odd faction of Tok’ra stood with their brethren. He had no problem with Cadogan; it was the Tok’ra that put him off balance. As long as he could operate without having to deal directly with the alien symbiotes more often than necessary, he was willing to go along with whatever else necessity dictated.

He’d adopted a policy of watching and waiting, rather than asking direct questions — believing at the time that with any luck, someone would come from Earth to find him, and things would sort themselves out then. As time passed with no search party, Cromwell had resigned himself to figuring things out on his own, and finding his own way home if need be — and if possible. One of the unredacted portions of the SGC’s report on the Tok’ra had mentioned that there had initially been resistance among them to any thought of an alliance with Earth, he recalled. Based on the date of that report, he reasoned the alliance was still new enough that it wasn’t terribly surprising to find it wasn’t universal knowledge, given that the Tok’ra might likely be spread rather thin.

If Sabar’s particular faction had separated themselves from what had to be the main body of their peers, there must be a good reason — for by this time, the colonel had come to trust Cadogan fully, and by extension to do his level best to give Sabar the same trust, even despite his own personal discomfort at the idea of host-symbiote pairings. He knew his visceral reaction to the symbiote was a product more of reflex than of rational thought, and he endeavored to put it aside as much as possible in their interactions, but it had not been until just this spring that he’d begun to get to know Sabar in any direct sense — and that only upon Cadogan’s open request. Still, it was slow going. There was just something about interacting with a creature who had the potential to completely dominate its host that unsettled the colonel and left him with a vague sense of unease, despite that fact that intellectually he knew Sabar to be a completely trustworthy ally who would never dream of employing that ability. With all of this in mind, Cromwell had kept his silence on the subject of Earth… and soon afterward had found himself occupied with enough else to push all other concerns aside, beyond his current duties with the _Am Rhyddid_ , learning to read and write Pridanic, and by extension learning all he could about their history and culture.

And, of course, his burgeoning relationship with Tesni. As of this moment he was enormously glad that he hadn’t gone home months ago, despite the fact that he was still concerned over what might have transpired there since he left. The fact that he had unburdened himself to her last night had brought his curiosity to the fore once again, however, especially in the wake of suggesting that she might be of help in forging an alliance between his people and hers, should contact be possible. Now that he’d opened the topic of his homeworld, if only to the woman to whom he’d pledged the remainder of his life, he found himself once more trying to fit together the pieces of what he knew about the Tok’ra with what he knew of the Tok’bel and what his instincts led him to suspect. Reasoning that Tesni — who appeared to be something of a sounding board for Cadogan, at least — might know more about the subject than he’d initially surmised, he’d asked, and what she’d just now told him confirmed some of his suspicions.

Her next answer was perhaps not quite as helpful, but even so it provided another piece for the puzzle.

“New human allies of the Tok’ra?” Tesni considered the question. “No… not that he’d necessarily say anything to me about that, for all that we do talk about all sorts of things.”

 _If Sabar hasn’t spoken to the other Tok’ra in the past couple of years, he wouldn’t even be aware of contact having been made between them and Earth,_ Cromwell mused as he worked the bread dough. _Which means that I’d be the first to tell him. He could probably find out from the others whether they still have contact with Earth, and if they do, I’d be able to learn what happened after I left — and go home for at least long enough to take care of whatever I need to take care of. Maybe asking the question might not be such a bad idea, now that I have some idea of why Sabar’s Tok’ra are different. If it weren’t for worrying about what might happen if Bel got hold of him and Cadogan… ah hell, it’s probably still best that I get a better picture of the lay of the land before I go bringing any of this up with Cadogan. As much as I’d like to learn what’s going on back home, I don’t want to upset anyone’s applecart here; not if it could adversely impact the Pridani._ No, he’d not do or say anything that could cause problems for the Tok’bel and the rebel group they supported.

For the first time, he truly felt the tug of two separate duties as well as desires. Not opposite, exactly, but pulling in different directions. That he owed something to Earth and the SGC — and to Jack — went without saying, of course. At the same time, however, he had taken on a duty here, to the _Am Rhyddid_ , and while it was understood at the time he took it that his duty to his homeworld superseded that, he was also acutely aware now of the extent to which he was bound to this world and its people. Not only because of their adoption of him, which fact he had not even been fully aware of until last night, although certainly they had gone to great lengths to treat him as family. Now he knew why. But on top of that, he’d chosen to make himself family now, in deciding to marry Tesni. _Cromwell, you’ve gotten yourself into it hip-deep here, you know that?_ He wouldn’t have things any other way, of course, but if he’d thought his life was complicated before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.

Dividing the dough into a pair of loaf-sized portions, the colonel began to shape them. As he reached for another handful of dusting flour, he glanced up to see Tesni watching him curiously, her eyes locked on his face. “You’ve something on your mind, _cariad_ ,” she said. “All these questions… what is it?”

For a moment he was tempted to just come right out and tell her what he knew about the alliance between Earth and the Tok’ra. After all, she’d promised that nothing he told her would go beyond herself. Still, he knew it would likely lead to even more questions, possibly complicated ones. _Better to save that for another day,_ he decided.

But he had to answer her with something. “Curiosity, mostly,” he told her. “My people have encountered the Tok’ra before — well, you knew that on my second day here, or could have guessed. We didn’t know anything about the Tok’bel, obviously, and thought the Tok’ra were a unified movement. I guess maybe we were wrong about that part.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “I’d figured you knew of the Tok’ra when my explanation about my uncle didn’t bring about a lot more questions on your second day. Of course, now that I know your people only rediscovered their own _chappa’ai_ recently, I’m not surprised you’re still becoming acquainted with what you find. And the Tok’ra… well, as I said, they tend not to involve themselves directly with human societies under Goa’uld domination, or so Sabar and my uncle tell me. The Tok’bel are regarded as something of an aberration by their kin. They aren’t shunned, exactly, but they aren’t always on the best of terms, either.”

Now Tesni had touched on something else that puzzled her husband-to-be. “I meant to ask you, how did Sabar come to be mixed up with the Pridani and the rebellion in the first place, if the Tok’ra don’t usually get so involved?”

Tesni put the loaf she’d been shaping onto a tray and began working on a second one. “The way I understand it, he was a Tok’ra operative sent covertly to Bel’s court by the Tok’ra High Council. While there, he was presented with a gift of slaves, among them a Pridano. When Sabar left Bel’s domain, he took these people with him and settled them on a world of free humans with whom the Tok’ra had some dealings. When he later required a new host because the one he had was dying, this Pridano offered to blend with him, and after their blending, convinced him to aid us in winning our freedom from Bel. Sabar gathered some friends to help. They became the Tok’bel, and have remained allied with us ever since.”

 _So the host retains enough leverage in the relationship to influence the symbiote that strongly?_ Cromwell was mildly surprised. He didn’t understand everything there was to know about the Tok’ra, but he knew they had long lifespans and took a series of willing volunteer hosts, leaving each at the host’s death and blending with a new one. This had been explained briefly in the report he’d read: three or four sentences that summed up the essentials on a species that were biologically identical to the Goa’uld but whose philosophy was opposed to theirs. It was a basic understanding, but enough, he felt, to work with in his present situation. _Still, I can’t imagine having one of those creatures inhabiting my cranium,_ he mused. That Cadogan managed to handle it while retaining his own personality intact was nothing short of a testament to the man’s strength of will, in the colonel’s estimation. Presumably, whoever had been Sabar’s first Pridanic host must have been an impressive individual indeed.

He pushed the thought aside, returning to the present moment. “Thank you,” he said to Tesni. “I was never quite sure whether it might seem rude to ask Cadogan directly, or Sabar either.”

She laughed. “I don’t think either of them would have minded. But in any case, this is all common knowledge; so common that almost no one finds it necessary to speak of it, the same way no one speaks of rain being wet, or of trees having leaves.”

Cromwell nodded. “Fair enough.” He finished shaping the second of his loaves and placed them on the tray next to Tesni’s.

She added the fourth loaf and wiped her hands on the damp towel he held out, having just used it himself. Covering the loaves with a clean, dry towel, she made her way around to his side of the table. “These will need some time to rise, and I could use some cool tea. Anwen will have made some earlier; shall we go and visit?”

He slid his arms about her and pulled her close. “In a moment.” Bending his head to hers, he kissed her gently, then just held her, reveling in the simple joy of contact. “Have you told anyone our plans yet?” he asked.

“I haven’t had a chance,” she said. “I’ve been busy ever since we got up this morning, and the five minutes I found to speak with Anwen were spent helping her portion out bread-making supplies. Have you said anything to anyone?”

Cromwell shook his head. “No, I’ve been as busy as you have.” He grinned. “I suppose we can simply announce it together, if you like.”

“We could. Though I’d like to say something to my uncle before anyone else. As patriarch and chief, he deserves to know first.” She kissed him again, then turned toward the door, keeping an arm about his waist and drawing him with her. “There will be two other couples marrying tomorrow as well, which will make us the third. Three is a lucky number, so that’s good.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Cromwell said. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else I need to know about for this?”

She pulled him closer against her side. “I’m sure. Just make sure you wear something nice, obviously. You know we dress nicely for festivals anyway, and people _will_ be looking at us at some point.”

“I was thinking I’d wear that blue tunic that Anwen gave me last summer.” The tunic, in deep blue summer-weight wool and graced with embroidered knotwork at neck, cuffs and hem, had arrived in his cottage a scant handful of days after his arrival in Llanavon. Adamant at first about giving it back to its owner, certain that he merited no such gift, he’d changed his mind once Tesni had explained the rules of Pridanic gift-giving to him, adding that her sister-in-law was happy to have made it for him, especially in light of the family’s gratitude for saving Ris from being killed by a Jaffa staff blast. He’d worn the tunic several times since then, and it had been joined by several more in various colors, made to his measure by Anwen’s skilled hands, but the blue one was by far his best clothing, and carried a certain additional value by virtue of being a gift of thanks. Both Cromwell and Tesni suspected — though they’d never been able to prove — that it had originally been intended for Cadogan but that Anwen had finished it with the colonel in mind, the two men being of a similar size and build. Cadogan was perhaps the merest bit slighter through the chest than Cromwell; not enough to make a difference given the way that Pridanic clothing was cut, and indeed it was the _cadlywydd_ ’s wardrobe that had first clothed the colonel beyond the black uniform he’d arrived in.

Tesni smiled. “That’s an excellent idea, and I know that she’ll be pleased you chose it. Besides, you look very nice in blue; it’s definitely your color.”

Cromwell chuckled. “How about you? What are you going to wear?” He had no interest in fashion, but he had to admit to liking certain colors, and there were one or two in which Tesni looked spectacular. _Well, she looks spectacular regardless,_ he amended.

“Oh, I have one or two things in mind, but I haven’t decided yet,” she said. “Rose or yellow, most likely.” Pridanic women dressed not dissimilarly from men, in tunics belted over loose trousers. Even everyday clothing was well-made and carried some embellishment; for special occasions one wore clothing in more intense colors or with additional embroidery, though otherwise what was considered formal clothing tended to be as practical and comfortable as one’s everyday garb.

At least wedding attire for both of them would be a simple matter. For his first wedding, Cromwell had worn his dress uniform, while Lisa had spent days shopping for a gown that she considered not only pretty but also comfortable. The result had been nothing short of stunning, but he’d felt vaguely guilty that women went to so much trouble when a man could just put on a suit — or in his case, a uniform — and be done with it.

The Pridani, he decided, were eminently practical people.

As they entered the kitchen at Bennaeth Bod, they met Ris on his way out. “Neirin, I was just about to come and find you,” said the youth. “My father would like your help and mine in the pavilion.”

“Ris, give him a moment to get something to drink, please,” said Tesni. “Anwen, do you still have some of the cold tea?”

Anwen glanced up from where she sat hulling strawberries, and pointed to a ceramic pitcher nearly hidden behind a basket of mid-season fruit and a sack of meal. “If there’s any left, it’ll be in there,” she told them. “Ris, do sit down and wait for Neirin. If you want him to come and help, you can at least have a moment’s patience.”

Ris ducked his head as he turned from the doorway. “All right, Mam,” he said, plucking two mugs off the shelf next to the fireplace and carrying them to the table, where he proceeded to fill them with tea from the pitcher. He handed one to his aunt and the other to his mentor. “Sorry, Neirin. My father just wants to get this done.”

“Even your father won’t begrudge a busy man a moment’s refreshment,” chided his mother. This time she didn’t lift her head from her work.

Tesni sat down beside her sister-in-law, setting down her mug and pulling a clean, empty bowl over in front of her. “Here, let me work on some of those,” she said, reaching into the basket of strawberries between herself and Anwen.

Cromwell drained his mug of tea, setting it down on the table. “All right, Ris. What is it that Idris needs?”

Ris answered as the pair moved toward the door again. “He wants to check the hooks around the edge of the pavilion, to make sure that none are loose. We’re going to have a lot of lanterns hanging tomorrow night, and dealing with the hooks is a job best done by taller men, who will only need the benches rather than ladders.” There was a note of pride in the youth’s voice. While he’d not yet attained his father’s six feet, at five-feet ten he was closing in, and matched both his uncle Cadogan and his mentor in height, making them four of the taller men in Llanavon, where the average man stood perhaps two inches shorter.

Unaccustomed to being regarded as particularly tall on his home planet, Cromwell chuckled. “I suppose it is,” he allowed, following the young man out the door. “ _Cariad,_ I’ll come and find you when I’m done,” he called over his shoulder to Tesni.

 

***

 

In the wake of Ris and Neirin’s departure, the two women continued to pluck stems and hulls from the berries. “I need to go and check on my bread in a little while,” said Tesni after a moment, “but I want to speak with Cadogan first, if he’s around.”

“The last I checked, he was in his study,” Anwen told her. “I’ve no idea what he’s doing, but if you want to go and see him now, I can finish the berries and then see to your loaves. I need to go up the street and fetch some honey from the community stores anyway, since I forgot to ask Ris to bring some back with him.”

Tesni put aside her bowl of strawberries and wiped her hands on a damp cloth. “Thank you,” she said, rising from the table and stepping to the inner doorway leading to the rest of the house. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, made her way down a short hallway and peeked through the open doorway of the study that occupied one of the front rooms overlooking the street.

Cadogan was seated at the table near the open windows. The _cadlywydd_ leaned back in his chair with his feet propped on the table, studying a data tablet. Tesni noted with a touch of humor that he’d removed his shoes before putting his feet up; Anwen wouldn’t tolerate shoes on the furniture at Bennaeth Bod, not even when those shoes belonged to the clan patriarch whose house this was by birthright, along with its furnishings. Cadogan wasn’t one to make waves with her, and only indulged his habit in socks or bare feet. Tesni knew from family lore that it was little more than a continuation of the same truce he’d reached decades earlier with her own mother, Dwynwen, who had been Cadogan’s co-chief until her death had placed that role on Idris’ shoulders.

A breeze from the open casement ruffled the _cadlywydd_ ’s light-brown hair, sunlight catching and illuminating the bright silver that graced his temples. Tesni reflected that her uncle’s appearance had scarcely altered over the course of her own lifetime; such was the result of his role as Sabar’s host, despite the fact that he was approaching his one hundred and thirty-first birthday. Cadogan tended to ignore his own birthdays, and had asked the family to let them pass unobserved and unremarked-upon, as he felt acutely self-conscious to be able to claim so many when most of his family and friends would never come anywhere near that number. He was not the least bit vain regarding his age; rather, he felt it unfair, he said, to live as long as he had — and quite probably still would — while the people he’d known in his youth had long since passed on, and even their children had gone. Cadogan had outlived his own children and even his wife, despite Menna’s having taken a symbiote herself not long after he and Sabar were blended, and reminders of this were the one negative element in what was otherwise a true gift of longevity bestowed by his partnership with the Tok’bel leader.

He had explained this once to Tesni, when she was in her teens and had asked him directly, as was her wont. One of her earliest clear memories from childhood recalled the boisterous celebration the family had held to mark his hundredth birthday, when she herself was but four, but since that time he had announced his intention to mark only quarter-centuries, and those solely to placate the loved ones who held him dear — as dearly as he held them — and who stubbornly insisted on honoring his presence among them when he knew it was only the combination of duty and luck that allowed him to remain.

Cadogan had always been Tesni’s favorite uncle, and she regarded Sabar as a beloved uncle as well. As if that weren’t enough, in the six years since her parents had died, Cadogan and his symbiote had largely filled the role of her late father in her life. Between the love she felt for them both, and her status — along with her brother — as Cadogan’s heir, it was only fitting that she inform him of her impending marriage before sharing the news with anyone else.

Tesni suspected that he would be thrilled. It hadn’t escaped her notice how encouraging he’d been of anything that allowed or required her to spend time in Neirin’s company these past several months. That Neirin’s need to learn to read and write in the Pridanic script had provided a perfect excuse was almost beside the point, as Tesni was sure her uncle would have found some other means to foster their relationship had the opportunity for her to play teacher not presented itself. Far from feeling manipulated, however, she felt only a sense of joy at how easily the situation had been made to work in her favor, even as she’d begun seeking her own opportunity to explore what might be possible between herself and the man who had sparked her interest almost from the moment of his arrival, despite the fact that it had taken her some time to admit this to herself.

It was time to tell her uncle the result of his benevolent machinations… and to thank him. She raised her hand to tap on the doorframe.

 

***

 

His attention absorbed by the report he was reading on the data tablet that rested in his lap, Cadogan was unaware of anyone’s presence until he heard a knock. Glancing up, he twisted slightly in the chair to see who was at the door.

Tesni stood on the threshold, smiling. “Am I interrupting anything important?” she asked.

Cadogan flicked a control to place the data pad in hibernation and set the device on the table. He brought his feet to the floor, though he remained seated. “Not at all,” he responded with a smile of his own for his niece. “Come in.”

She entered the room and made her way to the table. Ignoring the chairs, she perched herself on the table’s edge, in the space so recently vacated by her uncle’s feet. “I’m surprised you’re holed up in here, rather than outdoors,” she commented.

Cadogan chuckled. “So am I, but I wanted to get some work done. I was nearly finished just now anyway, so I suppose the rest can wait. Did you need me for something?” It wasn’t as if the report he’d been reading wouldn’t still be there the day after tomorrow, after the midsummer festival had ended. _Even I need to take a break sometimes,_ he acknowledged silently.

{Very true,} agreed Sabar. {I think we’ve both earned one for a day or so.}

Tesni watched his face, waiting for him to finish the exchange with his symbiote. Like most of the family, she was accustomed to these silent dialogues, and knew well how to read the signs to tell when he spoke with Sabar as opposed to being available to converse with others. Tesni, Anwen and Idris were so attuned to his habits that they could even discern when he was merely woolgathering, rather than involved in a conversation with his symbiote.

Clearly sensing that she had his attention, Tesni said, “No, actually I just came to talk to you.”

“Oh? What’s on your mind, _annwyl_?”

Tesni ducked her head, staring at her lap and swinging her feet the way she’d always done as a young girl when she’d had something she wished to address but was unsure where to begin. “Well…” she began, “you’re well aware, of course, that Neirin and I have been spending quite a lot of time together lately.” She glanced at him from under raised eyebrows, a small smile playing about her lips. “In fact, if I recall correctly, some of that was by your personal request.”

Cadogan nodded, wondering where this was going. He’d suspected something might develop between his niece and the mysterious offworlder, but as far as he was aware, they’d only begun to spend a great deal of time in each other’s company recently, perhaps all of two months ago. Surely things hadn’t progressed terribly far yet, had they? “I meant to thank you for teaching him,” he said sincerely. “You have no idea what a help that’s been, both to Neirin and to us — Sabar and myself, and the _Am Rhyddid_.”

Tesni laughed. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea, actually. Neirin acts as though he’s discovered yet another new world, and he’s been reading aloud to me most evenings. For practice, he says, and while I don’t doubt that’s part of it, we both find it entertaining as well. We spend most evenings together now… and I wanted you to know that after tonight, his cottage will be available for someone who needs it. Neirin will be living with me from this point forward.”

Cadogan raised an eyebrow, a smile creeping to his lips. “This sounds serious.”

His niece answered his smile with one of her own. “You know perfectly well that I never meant to take another love, let alone marry again… but so help me, that’s what I mean to do. The second, that is; the first has been a foregone conclusion for some time now. As I suspect you hoped would be the case.”

The _cadlywydd_ felt his face break into a grin. “You’re thinking of marrying him? Tesni, you know you have my blessing — not that you need it; this is your own decision. But I’m happy for both of you.”

She nodded. “It’s beyond the thinking stage, Uncle. Neirin and I had a long talk last evening. It turns out that he’s been married before, on his own world, but that had been over for quite some time even before he found himself here. I think he was afraid I would reject him when he told me what had happened, but there’s nothing that could make me do that, and I said as much. I wasn’t even remotely expecting this outcome from the conversation, not right now, but… well, he offered me the rest of his lifetime. I accepted, and so we’ve decided to wed tomorrow, at the festival dinner.”

Cadogan stared up at his niece, surprised. Not that she and Neirin were getting married, but that the two of them had come to that decision so quickly.

{Perhaps we should have placed a bet on that, rather than on how quickly Neirin would learn to read,} Sabar suggested in a humorous tone.

 _Hush, you,_ his host rejoined good-naturedly. To Tesni, he said, “Congratulations.” He couldn’t resist adding, “I thought you were the woman who was afraid to marry a second time, these past eight years. Now here you are, not only doing so, but on short notice.”

Tesni leaned forward to rest her hands on his shoulders and kiss his cheek. “Sometimes a thing will happen that will change one’s mind, Uncle. You’ve lived long enough to have that occur, certainly?”

Cadogan smiled at her. “Oh, a time or several.”

“Well, then.” Tesni sat back and shrugged. “Besides, you know the proverb, ‘A little fear is the price of fire.’ I know as well as anyone that what warms can also burn, but I’ve decided to take my chances, and be warm while I may. Every one of us is at risk, given what we’re doing. I could lose you or anyone else in the family, and I know it. Anyone in this movement or connected with it could lose their husband or their wife; why should I be any different? For that matter, something could happen to Neirin whether I marry him or not... and if it did, I think I might grieve even more deeply if I hadn’t taken him as my husband when I could,” she finished softly. There was a pause, and then she continued brightly, “As for marrying on short notice, remember that he and I have known each other for nearly a year now, even if we only realized what we mean to each other more recently. Sometimes you just know when a thing is right.”

The _cadlywydd_ nodded. “I’ll not argue that with you. I married your aunt Menna with similar speed. I was really only teasing you just now.”

Tesni chuckled. “I should have known, incorrigible man. Or was that partly Sabar’s idea?”

Cadogan bowed his head for the instant it took to cede control to the symbiote. {“I’m innocent,”} Sabar told her.

Now Tesni laughed outright. “The question is, of what? I’m sure there’s something.”

The Tok’ra grinned. The teasing banter between himself and his host’s niece was an old routine that went back to Tesni’s childhood, for in truth Sabar was well aware that she loved him as another uncle, and he regarded her as a beloved family member, the same way his host did. As Tesni had matured into womanhood, and her wit along with her, both Sabar and Cadogan had found her a worthy and delightful opponent when it came to humorous verbal sparring. Clearly Neirin was going to have his hands full. He probably did already, and the pair suspected he enjoyed it thoroughly. Their adopted kinsman might not be as voluble as some, but when he did engage in conversation, especially on those occasions when he was at his most relaxed, he displayed a sharp and ready wit of his own. He’d made Cadogan laugh more than a few times with offhand remarks, and Sabar as well.

{Yes, Tesni and Neirin are definitely a good match,} said the symbiote, relinquishing control once more to his host.

Cadogan patted Tesni’s knee. “So that makes three couples who will wed tomorrow. This will be quite the celebration, I’m sure. Have you told anyone else yet?”

She shook her head, smiling. “No, I wanted you to be the first to know. And I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, puzzled.

“When Neirin needed help in learning to read and write, my serving as his tutor gave us a lot of time to spend together. Whether or not you were aware of it at the time, I was looking for an excuse to spend that kind of time with him, so I was quite glad you thought to have me teach him.”

Cadogan chuckled. “Tesni, it was apparent to me that he was looking for a similar excuse. All I did was see the obvious and take advantage of Neirin’s situation to point you both in the same direction.”

Tesni slid off the table to stand, smoothing the skirt of her tunic. “Well, to my thinking, that’s reason enough to thank you. Not that Neirin and I wouldn’t have found our own way to this point eventually, I’m sure, but you certainly helped us reach it sooner, if nothing else.”

The _cadlywydd_ rose from his chair and placed an arm about her shoulders as they walked toward the door. “Then I’m happy to have done so. Let’s go see what we can do to help prepare for tomorrow, and you can share your news with the rest of the family.”


	34. Hand and Heart

Cromwell pulled at the neckline of his tunic as a breeze wafted through the dining pavilion. It wasn’t stiflingly hot, but the air had gone largely still not long before dinnertime, and the stillness combined with the humidity made it feel warmer than it probably was. Now that the breeze had apparently decided to return, he hoped conditions might soon be more comfortable.

He glanced up and down the table at the gathered family; _his_ family. Seated with the unaccustomed formality reserved for special occasions — this was, after all, the feast of Midsummer — they occupied what amounted to a ‘high table’ at one end of the pavilion, on a temporary dais perhaps a foot off the floor. Until two days ago, the colonel had thought his inclusion among their number at such events had been solely as a guest, by the invitation of one or another of the family. Someone had always taken care on formal occasions to point him to a seat near Tesni, or near Cadogan. Once, Idris had asked Cromwell to sit next to him and proceeded to engage him in a discussion of horses, a topic which greatly interested both men.

Now, of course, he knew that he was considered a family member, and according to Pridanic law and custom, he’d had every right to a seat somewhere at the high table for most of the past year. And after tonight… Well, after what he was about to do, he would be doubly bound to them.

As usual on formal occasions, Idris occupied the center seat, with Cadogan on his left. To the colonel’s amusement, the _cadlywydd_ was once again fiddling with his ever-present data tablet as he listened to Idris talk. The rest of the seating arrangement tended to vary from one occasion to the next with little rhyme or reason that Cromwell could decipher. On this Midsummer evening, Tesni sat on her brother’s right, with the colonel next to her, flanked by Ris on his other side. Anwen occupied the seat to Cadogan’s left, while the rest of the family was disposed haphazardly around the table’s U-shaped perimeter. The colonel noted Nenniaw debating something with Dynawd, as Tegwyn laughed at some story Blodwen was telling.

He turned his gaze from his tablemates to the gathering at large. Only a few feet separated the dais from the tables where the rest of the local populace were seated, and Cromwell watched from this vantage point as his friends and neighbors enjoyed the holiday feast. The meal was not quite half over, and both Idris and Cadogan had addressed the crowd briefly, offering up comments and congratulations on various accomplishments on the part of specific individuals and the community as a whole in this first half of the year. A toast to the health of all present had been drunk, and one to the memory of absent friends. By this point, conversation seemed to have turned to the purely informal throughout the pavilion, and the high table was no exception.

He’d expressed to Tesni earlier that he generally felt uncomfortable as the focus of attention, and she’d assured him that their marriage exchange need not be an embarrassingly prominent affair. “This is a second marriage for each of us, so fanfare is highly optional, and I don’t think we need any,” she’d said with a smile as she helped him arrange the writing desk that he and Ris had carried from his bachelor quarters to her — _their_ — cottage that morning. The desk was the only piece of furniture he’d seen fit to relocate, since it served him well in his duties as _filwriad_. Everything else in the home he’d been allocated the day after his arrival here last summer had its duplicate in Tesni’s already.

Now, amid the hubbub of conversation, he sought the right moment. He sensed Tesni doing the same. Idris finished whatever he was telling Cadogan, the _cadlywydd_ ’s answering chuckle reaching Cromwell’s ears from three seats away. A bottle of elderberry wine sat before Clan Branoc’s co-chiefs, and the colonel could see through the greenish glass that it was still half-full.

He reached beneath the table and grasped Tesni’s hand, giving it a brief squeeze. Leaning over the table, he caught her brother’s eye. “Idris, would you be so kind as to pass the wine, please?”

Idris turned and smiled, reaching for the bottle. “Of course.” He handed it to Cromwell, who tipped the bottle over Tesni’s cup, aware that he was now being watched by several of his tablemates.

“More wine, my wife?” he asked, meeting her eyes.

“If you will have some too, my husband,” she replied smoothly, smiling.

Their lips met, and someone – _Probably Ris,_ Cromwell thought — broke into applause. It was quickly taken up by the rest of the table, which led to its spreading to the gathering at large. _So much for keeping this low-profile_. Not that the same thing hadn’t already happened twice during dinner, beginning at the tables where the other two couples had married with similar exchanges.

The kiss ended before the applause, and he finished dividing the wine between Tesni’s cup and his own, feeling his face warm slightly. Tesni’s was flushed as well, and she was grinning. They both took sips of wine, as Ris laid a hand on his shoulder. “Congratulations, _Uncle_ Neirin,” he said.

The colonel turned with a grin of his own. “You’ve just been dying to say that, haven’t you?”

“I have.” The young man glanced past Cromwell, to his aunt. “Congratulations, Aunt Tesni.”

“Thank you, Ris.”

The applause died away, and Cromwell felt a hand on his other shoulder. He looked up to see Cadogan standing behind himself and his bride, grinning down at them both. There was a satisfied look in the _cadlywydd_ ’s hazel eyes as he focused on the colonel. “If you were anyone else, I would be welcoming you to the family, but you’ve been part of this family for nearly a year now, Neirin,” he said. “So let me just say ‘congratulations’ to both of you” — he glanced at Tesni and then back to her husband — “and welcome you as nephew rather than as cousin,” he finished, his gaze fixed on Cromwell. He held out a hand, and a wine cup appeared in it, passed by Idris. Cadogan raised it high, looking out over the gathered populace. “To Neirin and Tesni,” he announced. “Health and long life.”

The crowd echoed the sentiment with enthusiasm. Tesni leaned in close, whispering in Cromwell’s ear. “All right, so I _thought_ we could perhaps do this quietly.” There was humor in her tone as she added, “It appears my uncle had other ideas. I hope you don’t mind.”

He turned and kissed her again before answering, “Don’t worry about it. There isn’t much that could bother me right now.” He’d suspected that marrying a clan chieftain’s heir was maybe not the kind of thing likely to pass with little notice, and it seemed he’d been right. No matter. At this moment, he didn’t care who was paying attention to them. _His_ focus was Tesni.

 

***

 

Cromwell watched as the musicians gathered on the dais that had held the high table, which had now been moved to a more lowly station among the other tables being arranged around the periphery of the pavilion, leaving a large open area in the middle. He turned to help move the remaining tables and benches to their new configuration, only to be waved off by Celyn and Nenniaw. “Not on your wedding day, man,” Celyn told him with a grin. “You should go and spend time with your wife.”

The colonel looked over to where Tesni had hold of one end of a bench, while Anwen carried the other. “My wife appears to be moving furniture,” he commented drolly.

Nenniaw followed the direction of his glance and snorted. “Ah well, there’s another one who does things her own way. Come on, then, grab the other end of the table and let’s get this done.”

Soon the central floor space had been cleared, before the dais, and the musicians had arranged themselves to their liking and tuned their instruments. They struck up a lively piece that soon had folks clapping and whistling. As the first song segued into the second, a number of men and women formed lines on either side of the open space. Cromwell noted Idris and Anwen among them, along with Ris and Tegwyn. Cadogan had put aside his datapad and was out there as well, and even Nenniaw, along with his wife Blodwen.

Cromwell had seen the villagers dance on more than one occasion, mostly on gather nights, but also at festivals. He hadn’t joined in, however. It wasn’t that he couldn’t dance; many of the local dances reminded him strongly of square dancing, something he’d been taught in school as a child. Most of them were even called in a somewhat similar fashion, if less flamboyantly than some square dances were. Others reminded him of the contra-dances he’d encountered a few times in the area where his grandparents had lived, or other folk dances he’d observed on occasion during the odd outing here and there during his years stationed in various places around the globe. When at home, he’d found occasion to dance, if not often. The colonel knew he could dance well enough when he wanted to, but the last time he’d done so had been with Lisa, perhaps ten years ago or longer.

He knew that Tesni liked dancing, though. She’d often joined the dancers on gather nights, and he’d found himself watching her as she wove in and out among them as the patterns were called, admiring the grace with which she moved and how quick she was on her feet. Cromwell had often been engaged in conversation at the same time with one or two of the men from his unit at the time, and Tesni hadn’t intruded to ask if he would take part in the dancing, so he’d been spared the question of whether to say yes or no. Tonight, though, she was his focus, and he sensed that she would ask.

Almost as soon as the thought formed in his mind, he felt her take his elbow, leaning close to speak into his ear. “ _Fy nghalon_ , will you join in the dancing tonight?”

 _Good grief, no matter how much this looks like square dancing, it isn’t, and anyway, it’s been thirty-five, almost forty years since I last did_ that. _On the other hand, the steps_ are _called, and I’ve been watching long enough to know what at least some of them are…_

His wife was looking at him, waiting for an answer. “Tesni, I don’t know these dances,” the colonel cautioned her.

She smiled. “You can learn as we go. The ones at the beginning of the set are simpler anyway, so why not give it a try, at least?”

 _Why not, indeed?_ Cromwell asked himself. _I danced at my first wedding; why shouldn’t I dance at my second? Especially since my wife has asked me to._ He shrugged, smiling. “All right. But if it starts to look like I have two left feet, please tell me.”

Perplexed, Tesni furrowed her brow. “Two left feet?” She glanced down.

The colonel chuckled. He’d translated the phrase directly to Pridanic, but clearly the idiom went unused here. “It’s an expression from my birth language that means ‘uncoordinated’ — especially at dancing.”

She laughed and took his hand. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, _cariad_. You’ve as much grace as any man here, and more than many.”

As she spoke, she led him to the edge of the dance floor, where they stood with other would-be dancers waiting for the current dance to end. When it did, they took their places for the next, which the caller announced as _Colomennod yn y Coed,_ meaning ‘Pigeon In The Wood’. To Cromwell’s relief, he recognized the name as belonging to a dance he’d watched not a few times here and was reasonably sure he could manage to follow along. It began with a line of men on one side of the floor, facing a line of women on the other. He found himself between Dynawd and Armagil, and his former unit clerk grinned at him. “Congratulations on your marriage, _filwriad_ ,” he said.

The colonel returned the grin. “Thank you.” With two other local couples having wed on this festive occasion, he wasn’t the only new bridegroom receiving good wishes, but he was the eldest by what had to be at least fifteen years. Privately, he was rather glad that he and Tesni were not the complete center of attention, and he suspected this was true of his bride as well. Neither of them were the type to crave the spotlight. Nevertheless, the felicitations from his friends and family — _and how good it feels to be able to say that!_ — were welcome.

The musicians began the tune with a flourish and the caller, a fair-haired woman who managed to project her voice admirably over the music and the crowd noise, called out the first steps. Cromwell followed along, grateful that this was indeed one of the simpler dances. By the time the pattern repeated a third time, however, he felt he had a handle on what he was doing, and as the lines wound back to their starting points he found he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Tesni smiled broadly at him as they completed their final circle and returned to the places where they’d begun the dance. As the tune finished, she cocked her head, clearly asking whether he wished to continue. He gave her a grin and a shrug, and they remained on the dance floor for three more dances before taking a breather.

As they made their way toward the table where they’d left their cups, Tesni slid an arm about his waist. “See? I knew you could dance,” she said.

The colonel chuckled. “Well, with someone calling out what to do, it isn’t too hard to catch on. Of course, now I’m glad I spent some time just watching, or I wouldn’t know the names of any of the steps.”

“I didn’t realize you’d spent much time watching people dance,” she said.

“All right, so I was watching _you_ , mostly. The important part is that it made me pay attention.” He kissed her. “I haven’t danced in years, but I’m enjoying it.”

That earned him another smile. “Good; then I can expect you to keep on?”

He laughed. “Yes, I guess you can.” Stepping to one side, he drew her with him out of the path of other people heading for the counter where ale and cider were being dispensed. Taking her in his arms, he buried his face in her hair, inhaling that nameless fragrance that was uniquely her own. “Thank you,” he murmured into her ear. “If someone had told me not quite a year ago that I would be this happy today, I wouldn’t have believed them.” He kissed her again.

“Neirin, I could say the same. So thank _you_.”

There came the sound of a throat being cleared. Reluctantly, Cromwell released his bride and turned to find Ris behind him, holding two brimming cups of ale. “I thought perhaps you and my aunt might be thirsty, Uncle Neirin.” The youth wore a humorous expression as he held out their drinks.

“Thank you, Ris,” said the colonel, taking the cups and passing one to Tesni. “Although I’m surprised you aren’t off chatting with that girl you’ve had your eye on — Nia, isn’t it?” He grinned as the young man’s face turned pink.

Tesni slipped smoothly into the game. “I heard her asking Cornan about you earlier,” she told her nephew.

The pink deepened toward scarlet.

“If I were you, I’d go and ask her to join you for a dance,” Cromwell advised his protégé — his nephew, now. The colonel glanced over the crowd and pointed. “In fact, if I’m not mistaken, she’s right over there.”

Ris turned to look. “I, er, I suppose I should,” he agreed nervously.

His mentor clapped him on the back. “Well then, what are you waiting for? Hurry up before they start the next set of tunes.” He gave the young man’s back a gentle shove, propelling him into the crowd. “Good luck.”

As Ris made his way off in the direction of the dark-haired girl, Cromwell turned back to find Tesni laughing silently, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “You,” she gasped, “are every bit as bad as Cadogan.”

He feigned innocence. “Who, me?” A chuckle. “Besides, I seem to have had help just now.”


	35. Reflections

Carter scrubbed at her eyes, willing them to focus on the screen. The mug of coffee at her elbow had once again grown cold, and she was no nearer a solution to the question that had plagued her for the past thirty-six hours than she'd been… well, thirty-six hours ago. She knew she could use some rest, but she doubted her ability to sleep. She was lucky to have slept as much as she had last night. Once her brain was wrapped around a problem, she felt herself driven to push through and solve it. That trait had gotten her through the Academy, through all her subsequent Air Force training, and through grad school. It had served her well over two years spent analyzing the Stargate and its capabilities, before Daniel had shown up and solved the problem of dialing another world. It had helped her come up with a way to decouple the wormhole from the gate on P3W-451, a world doomed to spiral to its eventual death as it was sucked into a black hole, taking SG-10 with it. If it weren't for her pushing through a problem until she reached a solution, none of them would be here right now, and she knew it.

Of course, that solution had very nearly lost them Jack O'Neill… and might still result in the loss of Colonel Cromwell, if they didn't manage to find him on P2A-870.

That was the damnable thing about it. She shuddered again to think how very easily it could have been SG-1's CO whose rope parted, and who fell into the wormhole. Or who might have been crushed by G-forces as he fell against the iris, had those same forces not already ripped it away. At least Cromwell had been spared that fate. It was hard enough, feeling responsible for whatever _had_ happened to him.

And she did feel responsible. It was her idea that had sent both men rappelling into the gravity well to rig the explosive. Hell, it might even be her fault that the gate here had locked to the gate on P3W-451, unable to disengage. _What if I hadn't been so eager to study that black hole, via the MALP?_ she asked herself for what had to be the twentieth time. _If we'd tried to disengage just a minute earlier, would the gravitational field have already been strong enough to prevent us from doing so, or would we have been able to avoid the whole thing?_ She knew intellectually that one minute's difference probably wouldn't have been enough, that the two gates might well have been locked upon contact, but the fact remained that there was no way to be sure. This entire event was so far outside anything predicted by current theory that she was at a loss to make any hypothesis she felt certain about.

Except one. When she and Siler had arrived in the Control Room, several windows had already given way to the gravity and shattered. _If I'd really been thinking, I'd have insisted we knock out the rest ourselves before sending anyone into the Gate Room._ After the wormhole had disengaged, Jack had been given first aid and then carted off to the infirmary, and clean-up had commenced amid the return of teams who'd been stranded off-world for nearly two weeks, she'd helped the sergeant reel in the remainder of the line that had been attached to Cromwell's harness. The broken end had been "above" the shaped charge when it went off, thus escaping the blast energies, which had been almost entirely directed into the Stargate. Once they'd retrieved the length that was left, Carter had held it in her hand and simply stared, unwilling to accept what she was seeing, already cursing her own stupidity. The line ended with a break too clean to have been caused by the stress of the gravitational field alone. It gave every indication of having been at least partially cut by something sharp. As she stared at it, she kept seeing over and over in her mind's eye the shattering windows and the flying shards of glass raining down upon the two men. She was struck by a single, cold realization: whether by the idea she'd had or the one she'd failed to have until it was far too late, she was responsible for Cromwell's fate.

Not only that, but she'd been so sure that anything falling into the wormhole prior to the detonation would simply exit on P3W-451 and be lost to the black hole or its gravity that it hadn't even occurred to her to suggest sending a team to search for him on the world to whose gate the wormhole had connected before being shut down from the SGC. Not until Daniel asked the question, and she'd opened her mouth to answer that it was pointless, only for it to dawn on her that she really _didn't_ know that for certain. So much of what she'd done regarding the situation had relied on guesswork that she couldn't in good conscience bet a man's life on it. She'd simply stared at Daniel for a moment, before stammering, "No, not yet."

It had been late at night, and even General Hammond had gone home. No one was on-base who could authorize a search and rescue mission. Not only that, but before he'd left for the night, the General had instructed Siler to have a tech team begin checking every bit of equipment connected to the gate. The sergeant had put his techs on it immediately, and the gate was out of commission until Hammond gave his okay. At least she had time to refine her calculations before he was scheduled to return in the morning. Urging Daniel to go and get some rest, Carter had hurried to her lab and spent the next seven hours figuring out that in fact, it was entirely possible that Colonel Cromwell had remained in transit at the time the wormhole skipped to its new destination and had survived his journey.

What wasn't possible was for that journey to have taken him to P2A-870, although clearly it had. She'd run the modeling program with virtually every variable she could think of, and still it insisted that the world to which the wormhole had skipped lay just outside the realm of possibility. P2A-870 was closer to Earth than to P3W-451.

Many stargates occupied worlds whose stars hadn't even been named by Earthbound astronomers. Some were lucky to even have numbers, while others had no designation at all beyond the address of their stargate. The gate network appeared to cover the bulk of the Milky Way galaxy, and even allowed for travel to stars beyond the local galaxy, based on what had occurred not long ago when that alien database had been downloaded into Colonel O'Neill's mind. But not all planets with stargates were vast distances from Earth, astronomically speaking. Abydos was only a bit over twenty lightyears distant, for example. And while it wasn't exactly next door, P2A-870 wasn't terribly distant either. She'd been able to identify its parent star as Gliese 651, a very sunlike star less than sixty lightyears away. She'd shared that information with O'Neill, sensing that he might want to know. He'd accepted the knowledge gratefully.

What she hadn't told him was that she had no idea how the wormhole had connected to that world. And she wasn't about to tell him, either. Not when he was already worried about his friend. Besides, they already knew that Cromwell had been there; the unit coin found in the streambed was proof.

Sighing, she studied the computer screen again, through bleary eyes. Two days they'd spent waiting for the weather to clear, and she really _should_ get some sleep. But something kept niggling at the back of her brain, try as she might to push it aside. The thought was ludicrous, really.

Or was it?

Spacetime included, of necessity, a dimension of time as well as the familiar spatial dimensions. And there was one mathematical model that brought Gliese 651 to just within possible range of a gate skip from P3W-451. That model required allowing for travel in reverse along an imaginary temporal axis included as a subset of the coordinates. Put another way, stars changed position relative to one another over time. There was an analogue of this positioning inherent in the system of coordinates that made up Gate addresses, and even slight alterations over time could alter one or more coordinates in the set. Alter the orientation of the temporal axis relative to a set of coordinates, and what passed for "close" could change as well. On this last set of simulations, desperate to find anything that might explain what had happened, no matter how bizarre that explanation might be, she'd allowed temporal adjustments — normally locked out of the modeling program — into her calculations. Once the model allowed for relocation along the temporal axis as well as the spatial axes, Gliese 651 and the corresponding gate on P2A-870 suddenly edged into the realm of possible destinations for the wormhole as it decoupled from the gate on P3W-451.

She wasn't about to tell O'Neill that, either. For one thing, the range of allowable temporal dislocation was somewhat wide, ranging anywhere from 10 years to approximately five hundred, possibly more. For another, the fact that they'd found that coin in the sort of condition they had indicated it could have been dropped as recently as yesterday. It certainly hadn't looked any older to her than similar coins she'd seen that she knew to be of recent vintage. Allowing for its being carried around over a twenty-year career, it didn't appear to be much older. So even if Cromwell had traveled into the past, he hadn't gone five hundred years. That much she was sure of.

Beyond the uncertainties, however, lay one thing of which Carter _was_ certain. She'd never seen Colonel O'Neill this stressed, this worried about anyone, with the possible exception of Major Kawalsky. Kawalsky had clearly been another good friend of his, a friendship of long standing, and her heart had gone out to her CO as she'd watched him struggle with his fear and concern for his friend's well-being. She was seeing the same thing again now, and until she was positive she had a very good reason to suggest that Colonel Cromwell had not indeed arrived on that other planet just four days ago — and she couldn't be sure yet, given that she was still working in the scientific equivalent of uncharted territory — she was not going to give him anything more to worry about.

Behind her, a familiar voice said, "Hey."

The captain turned to see her CO in the doorway. He shrugged as well as the two steaming cups in his hands would allow. "Screw-up in the commissary. Want one of these?" Without waiting for an answer, he moved to the desk, setting a coffee next to her computer before lowering himself into a vacant chair.

"Thank you, sir." Carter studied his face. He looked haggard; shadows beneath his eyes echoing the deeper shadows within them. She nearly asked how he was, then thought better of it. Picking up the cup, she removed the lid and took a sip, still watching him.

O'Neill sipped from his own cup. "So, what'cha working on?" he asked.

Carter noticed a forced lightness in his tone that only added to the incongruity of the question. The colonel didn't often ask her to explain the science behind things, although he'd done precisely that just before the SGC's encounter with the black hole at P3W-451…

She suppressed a shudder. "Just some models of wormhole behavior, based on data we were able to collect recently," she replied, keeping her own voice as light as possible under the circumstances. O'Neill gave every impression of a man at loose ends who was looking for whatever he could find to occupy his mind and his time while he waited to be able to do what it was he really wanted to be doing. "The fact that the gate was able to transmit gravitational energy from one world to another opens up a whole new area that no one's even thought of exploring."

The captain was tempted to kick herself as soon as she heard the words leave her mouth. _Sure, because he needed yet another reminder of what just happened,_ she reflected.

O'Neill merely nodded, however. "So this wasn't something predicted by theory?"

"No, sir. I was as surprised as anyone."

"Ah." The colonel sipped at his coffee in silence, staring off into space at something only he could see.

Carter watched his face for a moment before turning back to her monitor. She'd been working on her models ever since she'd arrived that morning, breaking away only when the gate was dialed to query the MALP left on P2A-870, and once for lunch. The dinner hour had come and gone, marked only by the arrival of Teal'c in her lab, bearing a sandwich and keeping her company for the twenty minutes it took her to eat it. She darted a glance at the time display on the lower corner of the screen, noting that it was 2218 hours. Each check of conditions near P2A-870's stargate since that morning had revealed either current or incipient storm activity, keeping them from returning to the planet. At local sunset, General Hammond had once again suspended the queries, promising to resume them at dawn. He'd stopped short of ordering SG-1 off-base, however, clearly trusting them to use their own judgment in seeking their rest. The captain knew she'd have to either go home or spend the night in her quarters within the mountain, and she should make the decision soon. She wondered what her CO was going to do. From the look of him, he hadn't gotten much sleep in the past twenty-four hours, and now he sat drinking coffee in her lab. "Sir?"

He blinked, the brown eyes refocusing on the room. "I know, Carter. 'Get some rest.' Right?"

She smiled despite her concerns. "Yes, sir. We can't do anything more tonight, and the storms almost have to be over by sometime tomorrow. We'll all want to be at our best when we go back."

"I know." O'Neill stood and stretched, craning his neck to glance at the computer monitor. "Uh, captain…"

She bit her lip, turning her face away, although she was sure that a brief glance wouldn't tell him anything he didn't need to know right now. _Not unless he'd been paying attention to the modeling program all day. All he can see are abstract graphics and some numbers. Nothing to worry about._

"Yes, sir?" she asked.

There was the slightest hesitation, and she looked at him, noting the puzzled expression as he attempted to decipher the display. He shook his head abruptly. "Nothing." He stifled a yawn; she caught it, but said nothing, the look in his eyes telling her he was aware that she'd noticed. "I'm going to go crash in my quarters on base, if anyone needs me," he told her, picking up his empty Styrofoam cup and crushing it before dropping it into the wastebasket.

She smiled again. "Yes sir." A pause. "I could explain what the model is about if you really want me to, but — "

He shook his head. "No, that's all right. You just… do your thing, Carter. Or better yet, get some sleep yourself. When the storms end, I'll need you at your best, too." O'Neill moved toward the door.

"Good night, sir."

"Good night, Carter."


	36. Uneasy Implications

_Success is the child of audacity._ — Benjamin Disraeli

  


Sabar drummed impatient fingers on the desk in his quarters as he studied his data tablet. The smooth, crystalline surface of the worktop was cool and slick beneath his touch, quite different from the warm, organic feel of Cadogan's wooden desk in their office in Dinas Coedwyg, or the one in the study at Bennaeth Bod. Despite centuries spent in the familiar confines of Tok'ra tunnels beneath the surface of this or that bleak planet or moon, Sabar found his workspace here at Caer Ynys somewhat cold and sterile in comparison to its counterparts on his host's world. {I suppose Selmak would point to this as another example of letting my host have too much influence on me,} he mused, sharing the thought with Cadogan. {As if she has any place to talk, given how she let whatever issues Saroosh had with Berwyn color our own interactions. Not that she'll ever confess to that, I'm sure.}

That drew a mental chuckle from his host, who'd heard this particular complaint countless times before.  _Admit it, my friend. You're getting soft in your old age,_  he joked.

Sabar's momentary irritation with the High Councilor — who, after all, wasn't even present — gave way to humor. { _My_  old age, is it? Adjusting for species differences, I'm younger than you are.}

 _Fair point,_  Cadogan rejoined, in the same teasing tone.  _So perhaps you're just being kind to an old man._

{An 'old man' with nearly a third of his life still ahead of him, if I have any say in matters,} the symbiote reminded him with familiar affection. {You're stuck with me for a while yet, boyo. Lucky for you I'd rather spend time on your planet than here.}

They'd both rather be on Tir Awyr right now, Sabar reflected, if the truth be told. While there had been plenty to accomplish on this visit, right now he was waiting for just one thing. What could be keeping Nasara? When she'd been here last, she'd promised Sefys she would return in one month's time. Normally punctual, she was three days overdue. He resumed tapping on the desk. The finger-drumming was a human habit, too; one he was pretty sure he'd picked up since involving himself with the Pridani, though he couldn't quite recall whether it had come from Berwyn or from Cadogan.

 _We both got it from Berwyn,_  commented his host.  _At least, I think we did. Sometimes it can be hard to sort out my own memories of him when he was your host from his memories that you've shared with me._

{No, you're right. Berwyn always did that, now that I think about it. If I remember correctly, you didn't really start until you'd been working with us for a few years.}

Stretching, Sabar slid the chair backward and propped their feet on the desk, balancing the data pad on their lap. Aware that Cadogan was often annoyed with the crystal-grown chair that had originally occupied these quarters, some time ago Sabar had force-grown a replacement in a configuration his host found more pleasing. He found it more comfortable too — this one allowed for putting feet up. Of course, that was definitely a habit he'd picked up from Cadogan. Well, he'd learned early on in his time with Berwyn how strong the personalities of Pridanic hosts could be. And after nearly a century and a half with first one, then a second, he knew he wouldn't have it any other way. Selmak, Garshaw, Delek… they could all just get over it.

The sound of someone clearing a throat reached them. Turning, Sabar saw Kaldin standing in the entryway. {"Yes, Kaldin? Did you need me?"}

Sabar's oldest and dearest living friend stepped into the chamber, inclining his host's greying head in greeting. He then nodded toward the booted feet propped on the desk, chuckling. {"Joron says to tell you that you remind him of his father when you do that."} Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Kaldin glanced at the data tablet resting in the other's lap. {"Garlen's design for a ring transport diverter?"}

Sabar nodded. {"A rather elegant device, I must say. I don't know where he comes up with half the ideas he has, but each time he gets a new one, I'm reminded how glad I am to have him among our number."}

The comment drew a grin from Kaldin. {"He's a bright one, all right. When he fitted your tel'tak with shields  _and_  a cloak, I thought for certain that he'd lost his mind. But then when he upgraded the control system so you could have either one at the throw of a switch, I realized he was just operating on a level way beyond anything I'll ever understand."} Garlen, the Tok'bel's resident technical expert, had somehow managed to rig the shield generator on the craft to output both shields and a workable cloak, although not simultaneously. It had been painstaking work, involving tearing down the generator nearly to its most basic components, and then reassembling it in a configuration never before seen by the other Tok'bel. No stranger to technical matters himself, even Sabar admitted that he had no clue how Garlen had gotten it to function this way, let alone where he'd gotten the idea. But function it did, leaving him more than mildly grateful for Garlen's genius.

Sabar matched Kaldin's grin. {"Well, his work has saved both you and me more than once."} Setting the tablet aside, he shifted in the chair to face Kaldin, resting his feet on the floor this time. {"So, what's on your mind?"}

{"I was thinking about something you said in our meeting this morning, regarding the captured ships."} The Tok'bel had acquired a small complement of Goa'uld ships, perhaps a dozen or so, from various sources over the years, occasionally finding them disabled on the surface of one of the Five Worlds or abandoned adrift in space. The latter finds were more useful; despite the fact that such craft likely dated to the coup conducted against Bel by his own offspring eight centuries ago and the mysterious disappearance of Bel's fleet around the same time, the craft in question had floated essentially frozen and preserved in the vacuum of space, generally far from the orbit of any of Bel's worlds though in orbits of their own about the parent stars.

With one exception, all were ger'tak, the small crescent-shaped two-man fighting ships commonly carried aboard ha'tak and used for warfare both in space and in atmosphere. The exception was a slightly damaged al'kesh found derelict, drifting in high orbit around Mym, a rocky, airless world in the same system as Arverenem. Garlen and a team of assistants had been able to repair its control systems and discovered both its power plant and hyperdrive engines still functional. The hull bore some pitting from micrometeorite impacts — so did the hulls of the derelict ger'tak — but the ship was usable. It had proven useful in ferrying the abandoned ger'tak to a central location, as the ger'tak lacked hyperdrive engines of their own. One at a time, in a painstakingly slow process, the Tok'bel had retrieved the ger'tak, using grapples to load each into the al'kesh which then carried the smaller craft to the safety of a subterranean hangar at Caer Ynys in the hopes that they might one day be used in the fight to free Bel's subject humans. Now that things were moving forward more quickly, Sabar had given more thought to the ships of late. This morning, he'd floated the idea of beginning to train some of the human rebels to pilot them.

{"And what were you thinking?"} Sabar asked his friend.

Kaldin studied the ceiling of the chamber for a moment. {"I can see your point about training pilots, except for one problem. How are we going to transport ger'tak to anyplace useful?"}

{"We capture a ha'tak, that's how."} Sabar chuckled at Kaldin's nonplussed look. {"I mean it. Oh, I know it sounds ambitious, but can you name me any portion of our endeavor that isn't?"}

{"I won't argue that, but how do you propose we go about this? Bel has two ha'tak at the moment, and I don't know how you think we can get control of either of them. Even if we had someone at command level in Bel's fleet — which we do not — what you're talking about isn't child's play."}

{"No, you're right about that much,"} Sabar conceded. {"However, remember the report from Galla. Bel's ordered a third ha'tak constructed, beginning in another month. We have operatives in the shipyards, both Tok'bel and human, and we may well be able to use that to our advantage."}

Kaldin said nothing for a moment, simply staring at his friend. Finally, he found his voice. {"You mean to  _steal_  a newly-built ship right out from under his nose?"}

{"Why not?"} Sabar shrugged, grinning.

{"Have you taken leave of your senses, Sabar?"}

The Tok'bel leader chuckled again. {"Not at all. Kaldin, think about it. Right now, Bel's worried about Moccas, and I'm guessing that's  _why_  he's ordered the new ship constructed. So what if we were to manage to steal it for our own use, but make it look as if this were the work of Moccas instead? We gain a capital ship, and Moccas gets the blame. Obviously, this is predicated on Moccas himself not having more than a couple of ha'tak of his own, but I expect when we get reports back from the operatives we've sent undercover in his organization, that's what we will likely discover. If so, then we could wind up with the two of them fighting each other, weakening both, while we've gained a significant resource… and possibly the upper hand."}

Kaldin blinked at him. {"There are moments when I wonder if Selmak wasn't right about you all along."} He drew a deep breath and exhaled noisily. {"And then I remind myself that were it not for audacity, the Tok'ra would never have existed at all."} Another pause. {"But what I can't for the life of me figure out is how you received such a large share of it, compared to most of us. Even me, and I used to think I was quite the daring one."}

Sabar chuckled again, reaching out to pat his friend's knee. {"If you weren't, you wouldn't be out here with me in the first place, Kaldin. You were the first one I asked, remember?"}

{"I was very nearly the first to tell you then that you were crazy, too, if you recall."}

{"But you didn't. Are you going to tell me now?"} Sabar quirked a smile.

{"No."} A shake of the head, accompanied by a grin. {"Oh, don't get me wrong; this may well be insanity. But so is sitting around waiting for something to happen rather than making it happen. If I must choose one, I know which kind of insanity I prefer."}

A new voice interrupted their conversation. Sefys stood at the entry to Sabar's quarters. {"Nasara has arrived, Sabar. I've shown her to guest quarters, as she intends to stay the night. She wishes to speak with you as soon as you find it convenient."}

 _Well, that's a relief,_  commented Cadogan. He'd shared his symbiote's concern over Nasara and her host Maia.  _At least we can stop worrying that something went wrong on their mission._

When they arrived at the guest quarters assigned to their visitor, they found her deep in concentration over a data tablet of her own. Nasara sat tailor-fashion on the bed, a mane of auburn hair falling forward, hiding half her host's face as she studied the tablet in her lap. Cadogan had always thought privately that Maia looked as though she might easily have been herself a native of Tir Awyr. Except for the color of her eyes, she reminded him greatly of his sister Ninnocha as a young woman. According to Sabar, Maia hailed from Halandir, a world halfway across the galaxy where Berwyn had spent thirty years of his life between being freed from slavery to Bel and becoming Sabar's host, though she was no relation to Berwyn.

Pausing in the entryway, Sabar called out, {"Nasara? Welcome."}

The auburn head came up, brown eyes shifting focus. {"Sabar. It is good to see you, and Cadogan."} She laid the tablet aside and unfolded her host's body gracefully from her seated posture, rising to greet them as they entered the chamber. {"My apologies for making you wait, but there have been events afoot and I wanted to make sure I gathered all the information that I could."} The fair-skinned face wore a troubled expression.

{"More unrest within the Council?"}

Nasara caught up her data tablet again, moving toward the small table that occupied one side of the chamber, flanked by two chairs. As they seated themselves, she touched a control on the side of the tablet, bringing up a page of notes. {"To some extent, yes, but there's more than just that,"} she answered, turning the tablet around and sliding it toward Sabar. {"I was talking with Remir, and he agrees with me. There may well be a schism imminent in the Council. But this is the wrong time for us to get caught up in internal problems, because there is unrest in Ra's domain, and the Tok'ra are going to want to be in a position to use this to our advantage."}

Sabar quickly scanned the tablet's screen. If Remir suspected things were becoming this problematic at the level of the Council, that lent even more credence to Nasara's own thoughts on the subject. Like Nasara, Remir was another Tok'ra who could have gone either way when Sabar had been putting together the core of the Tok'bel. A capable operative and a trusted friend, Remir sympathized with Sabar's views, though like Nasara, he didn't chafe as badly under the Council's reins as Sabar did. In the end, he'd opted to remain among the mainline Tok'ra for the time being, although maintaining ties to Sabar's group, which after all included a number of Remir's other friends. Over the decades since the founding of the Tok'bel, Remir — like Nasara — had shared information with Sabar, keeping him abreast of developments 'back home' and occasionally carrying information that Sabar deemed important to share with the Council, despite the Council's express disapproval of the Tok'bel and their chosen mission.

Sabar had come to depend greatly on Remir and his host Arzo, just as he did on Nasara and Maia. While he could occasionally still wish that both pairs would join fully with the Tok'bel, where their abilities would be a decided asset, having friends one could count on who were still in the good graces of the High Council was an enormous help as well. Especially on those rare occasions when he visited the Tok'ra personally. He hadn't done that in several years, but it was beginning to look as if a visit might well be in order soon.

The notes on Nasara's tablet outlined the basic agenda of a Council meeting, apparently jotted down from memory. One item that stood out was mention of a report from Lantash regarding unrest on Fayoum, one of several worlds under Ra's direct control. {"Nasara, have you come directly from your mission, or have you been to Rak'lar?"}

{"I was able to complete my mission early and return to Rak'lar five days ago. Since then, I found some time to speak with Lantash regarding what he learned while he was in Ra's territory. Fayoum is not the only world of Ra's domain where some doubt his godhood, but doubt is strongest there. More is occurring than that, though. While Lantash was gathering information on Fayoum, the Council sent his mate Jolinar to Tamilat."}

Tamilat was the primary world under control of Montu, the minor vassal of Ra whose court Kaldin had infiltrated nearly two hundred years ago. {"And what did Jolinar learn there?"} asked Sabar.

{"It seems that Montu suspects Heru'ur of plotting against Ra,"} Nasara replied. {"Moreover, he is seeking a way to turn this to his own advantage. Not that this is surprising in itself, of course. It's no secret that Montu has long had his eye on gaining a greater share of his master's domain. He's expressed the thought that he ought to be given control of some of the more distant worlds from the center of Ra's territory. Abydos, for example."}

Sabar blinked. {"Abydos? Ra's had control of Abydos longer than almost any other world in his empire."}

{"Yes, but as he gained territory, the center shifted as he came to control more worlds inward and spinward. These days, Abydos is much closer to the boundaries of what he rules than it is to the center."}

Sabar thought about this for a moment. {"Still, though, it's nowhere near Tamilat. So what's Montu really thinking, I wonder?"}

Nasara shook her head. {"My guess is that he'd like to gain an advantage along the anti-spinward rim of Ra's empire, in the direction of Heru'ur's own domain. There are several planets there that are underutilized, and one or two that have been abandoned."}

{"Abandoned? If they've been abandoned, it's likely either because their  _chappa'ai_  have been rendered useless or unreachable by seismic events, or the supply of naquadah ore has run out. What use would he have for a world without naquadah? And while a world whose  _chappa'ai_  has been buried could still be reached by ship, do you really think he'd find it worth the trouble? Unless there were massive resources there, in which case whoever originally held those worlds would have maintained operations themselves via ship, at least until they found a way to unearth the  _chappa'ai_."}

His companion nodded. {"Oh, I agree. Of course, there are a few worlds where the cause was rebellion, rather than any natural calamity.'}

{"Worlds that have rebelled and had significant enough technology to make it stick…"} Sabar trailed off, thinking. {"There aren't many of those. And the less technologically-advanced ones are mostly either under Asgard treaty protection or their rebellions happened after the naquadah supply got low enough that it wasn't really worth expending the energy necessary to maintaining control, like on Halandir. We're trying to make something similar happen with the Five Worlds here, since most of them don't have particularly large reserves of ore to begin with."}

{"I know that."} Nasara scrolled to the next screen on her tablet. {"For that matter, remember the Tau'ri. They didn't have naquadah at all, and when they buried their gate, Ra abandoned them. Even if not all Goa'uld did so right away."}

Sabar's eyes grew round. {"Surely Montu doesn't have designs on the Tau'ri world, does he?"}

Nasara snorted. {"I seriously doubt it. Oh, sure, the prestige of reclaiming the cradle of our hosts would be impressive, as would taking back a world that managed to successfully throw off Ra. But really, nobody bothers with it anymore because it has nothing to offer in the way of material resources, and by now there are plenty of worlds from which the Goa'uld can obtain hosts, since they seeded Tau'ri to so many to begin with. Their ancestral world is a backwater, useless, with no  _chappa'ai_  readily accessible, and nothing worth taking from it by ship any longer."}

{"True; even the last groups of Tau'ri slaves were taken by ship several centuries ago, at least if our intelligence is accurate. It was longer than that for the people Bel took."} Sabar sighed. {"I recall that Egeria had such high hopes for the Tau'ri one day, after the last Goa'uld would be gone from their world. I wonder whether they'll ever achieve anything like the full potential they'd have had if our ancestors hadn't interfered and enslaved them?"}

Nasara shrugged. {"Hard to say. Surely their culture has been radically altered by the Goa'ud, perhaps permanently. Then again, some of their descendants on other worlds have managed to do impressive things, once the Goa'uld left them alone. I suppose anything's possible."} She consulted her data tablet again. {"But back to Montu and Heru'ur. Jolinar says she wasn't able to access all the details of what Montu knows or thinks he knows about Heru'ur's plans. Montu left Tamilat upon Ra's own summons to attend him, no more than six days after Jolinar arrived there, and she returned to Rak'lar. She's planning another visit to Tamilat soon, once Montu is likely to have returned. She may find out more then. In the meantime, the Council already have an operative in Heru'ur's court and are awaiting a report from him."}

{"What does Lantash say?"}

{"What does Lantash always say? That if there's going to be another uprising against Ra, it's a good thing, and that we need to be ready. On that, the Council actually agree with him. It's only when he talks about directly aiding such a movement that the trouble starts. Garshaw gets her back up, and Selmak steps in and says sympathetic things to both sides to try to defuse the situation… but you and I both know that she'd never condone risking more Tok'ra lives in direct aid to a rebellion. She's still annoyed that you and your group haven't come to your senses and run back home to do things the Council's way."}

Sabar arched an eyebrow. {"'Come to our senses'? She actually said that in public?"}

{"Well, they certainly aren't  _my_  words, Sabar,"} Nasara told him acerbically. {"Not that she exactly said it in public. It was a private conversation — directly outside the council chambers and in full view of at least a dozen or more Tok'ra, mind you, but she seemed to be speaking as merely herself, and not in her capacity as a Council member. As if it won't be taken nearly the same way, regardless."}

Sabar sensed Cadogan's inward sigh. He knew his host had little more patience for Council posturing than he himself did. Cadogan had met Selmak and a number of the other Council members before, on Sabar's infrequent visits to whatever stronghold the mainline Tok'ra currently used. Perhaps because Cadogan could be the soul of diplomacy where Berwyn had rarely bothered, there was far less friction between Saroosh and Cadogan than there had been between Saroosh and Berwyn. This helped to smooth things somewhat, but there was still a rather wide philosophical gap between Sabar and Selmak, and between Tok'bel and the typical Tok'ra. Nasara, Lantash, Remir and to some extent Jolinar were more sympathetic to Sabar's thinking, but beyond this small loyal circle and a few other friends, the tension remained.

{Pain in the mik'ta,} he commented to his host.

 _That's one way of putting it,_  Cadogan agreed silently.

{"So basically, all we can do for now is to keep an eye on things, then?"} Sabar asked Nasara.

{"Essentially,"} she agreed. {"We may know more in another month, and if we do, you know I'll be back to update you."}

She switched off the data tablet. {"In the meantime, I'd like just one evening to relax. Hard to do that in the tunnels at Rak'lar these days, since the Council has tensions wound up so tightly that the air pings."} She gave him a look whose intent was unmistakable. {"You wouldn't know any way of helping me to get my mind off it for a while, would you?"}

Sabar chuckled. {Now, if that wasn't an invitation, then I don't know what is,} he commented to his host.

 _No,_  replied Cadogan.  _Not that I wouldn't like to, but not with Maia._

{Oh, come on. This is really that much of an issue for you?}

 _I'm telling you, she reminds me too much of my sister as a young woman. I just can't get past that. Maia is a wonderful person, but when I look at her, something in me still keeps seeing Ninnocha._

{That's the one thing I still have trouble really understanding.} Sabar's tone was exasperated. {I agree that she does look like Ninnocha. I remember Ninnocha myself, after all. But she isn't your sister, so why should it matter?}

 _It just does,_  said Cadogan stubbornly.  _I can't explain it. But I never wanted to sleep with my sister, and this would be just too close to that for my comfort level._

{I guess that's one area where we're just different,} remarked Sabar. {Not that I ever wanted to sleep with your sister, and neither did Berwyn; I don't mean that. But Nasara  _is_  my sister… and her suggestion doesn't bother me at all. Same parentage, obviously; same brood, even.}

 _Yes, but every Tok'ra who was spawned as one is_ your _sibling._ I  _only had a handful. Trust me, it's different. This would be normal for your species, but I can't do it._

{Pity,} said Sabar. Aloud, he said to Nasara, {"I do, and I'd love to help, but my stick-in-the-mud host seems disinclined."} He shrugged apologetically. {"In the interest of maintaining some semblance of domestic tranquility, I'm afraid I'll have to pass."}

{"Why, Cadogan, what did I ever do to you?"} Nasara asked, her tone teasing. It wasn't as if this were a new exchange between them, but Sabar got the impression she brought it up just to wind his host up every now and again. The answer had never once been yes, but he suspected that if they ever had given her the go-ahead, she'd have been surprised. He knew she'd likely take them up on it, too, but not without a moment spent adjusting her thought processes.

 _By thunder, Sabar, let me take over for a moment,_  Cadogan said.

{As you wish.} Chuckling, he ceded control to his host.

Cadogan reached across the table and took Nasara's — or Maia's — hand. "Nasara, my dear, you know it isn't you. It isn't Maia, either. It's me. There's simply too much resemblance to my departed sister, as I've told you half a dozen times before. I can't get around that, no matter how well I may like you both. And I do like you both very much, so let's not complicate matters, shall we?"

Nasara smiled, shaking her head slowly. {"Pity,"} she said, unwittingly echoing Sabar's remark. {"But I'll not trouble you further on this. I understand."}

"That's what you said the last time. And the time before."

{"Can I help it if my host has other ideas?"}

Cadogan groaned, imploring the chamber's crystalline ceiling for patience. "Let me speak with Maia, then."

Sabar chuckled silently at his host's discomfiture.  _Oh, you be quiet,_  Cadogan told him irritably.

Across the table, Nasara had bowed her host's head; now that head rose again, the curtain of auburn hair once more falling away from the eyes whose color was very nearly the only thing differentiating Maia from Ninnocha. Well, except for their having been born on different planets — Maia at least forty or fifty years later than his sister, if Cadogan was any judge, notwithstanding the effects of her hosting a symbiote —- and the fact that Ninnocha had been dead for several decades while Maia was very much alive.

"Oh, don't listen to her, Cadogan," Maia told him before he could open his mouth to speak. "While I wouldn't mind at all, and would honestly enjoy it, this is between Nasara and Sabar… and I'm quite certain it's nothing more than an innocent game. Nasara's intent has been to have some fun with you, and while her first invitation several years ago was in earnest, her suggestions have been largely in jest since then, because of your initial refusal. Don't let it make you uncomfortable." She squeezed his fingers where their hands were still joined. "As for me, the first time you said no and explained why, it was reason enough as far as I'm concerned."

Cadogan blinked, then chuckled. "So that's the way it is, then? All right, I'm glad to know that. Don't think I haven't been flattered, but seriously…"

Maia laughed. "Oh, trust me. I had brothers, and I think I'd have the same problem if all of this were reversed. Just consider it one thing the Tok'ra find beyond their understanding."

"Fair enough," he agreed. "And Nasara, since I know you're listening, can we just have done with this now? I won't be Sabar's host forever, you know. You both can do whatever you like when I'm gone."

Maia's eyes took on the faraway look that Cadogan knew meant she was listening to her symbiote. When she focused again on him, she said, "I'm to ask you — and I quote — 'Where's the fun in that?' Of course, she's joking; she asked me to tell you that as well."

{She quite likely is,} Sabar agreed. {I've known Nasara for a very long time, despite our brood having been partitioned when we were still too young to have come into full comprehension of our own identities. If she really wanted to pursue anything with me beyond a moment's fun, she's had more than ample opportunity over the past several hundred years. You really aren't interfering with anything on our side of the equation.}

 _Nice of you to tell me that now,_  Cadogan grumbled in mock annoyance. He'd been had, and he knew it. He'd think twice before taking seriously everything a symbiote said from now on, even when it was Sabar talking. As he formed the thought, he felt Sabar chuckle again.  _Just you wait,_  he told the symbiote. _I'll remember this._

Aloud, he said, "Then let's leave it at that. In the absence of any other activities on the agenda, why don't we all just enjoy a quiet dinner instead? Or, I suppose if Nasara truly had her mind set on something else, we could probably go and send Dakan to visit in our place." There was a wicked gleam in his eye as he said it. He knew from the memories he shared with his symbiote that Sabar's friend Dakan had once expressed an interest in Nasara and her previous host, but Nasara had not returned that interest. Dakan had taken the rejection in less than stellar fashion, causing a handful of awkward encounters before the situation finally resolved itself — in what manner, neither Cadogan nor Sabar was entirely sure, though there'd been no problem since.

Maia, of course, had access to Nasara's memory of the event, and she chuckled as she bowed her head, returning control to her symbiote. {"No, thank you,"} said Nasara, looking up again. {"I think dinner will be just fine… although I may pay Sefys a visit later,"} she added, her tone teasing once again.

"Much good luck do I wish you in dealing with Segira, then," returned Cadogan diplomatically, hiding a grin. Segira and her host Elin were mated to Sefys and Duthac, something of which he knew Nasara was well aware, and in which she would never interfere.

{"Well then, perhaps we shall have to be satisfied simply with dinner after all,"} Nasara said with a smile.


	37. The Seeds of Daring

_Nothing is too high for the daring of mortals. We storm heaven itself in our folly._  — Horace

 

 

Cromwell pounded his way along the winding trail, one of many that formed a network crisscrossing the forest between Llanavon and Bren Argoed. Each breath he drew brought with it the heady scent of the woodland: rich humus, the tang of pine, the scent of flowering plants that formed part of the underbrush. Birdsong filled the forest as its avian inhabitants greeted the dawn; jays scolded him from the boughs of oak and ash as he passed below. In the pale light of the newly-born day, leafy branches at the narrowest points of his route anointed him with dew as he brushed past them, adding their moisture to the sweat of his body.

At the height of summer, just after dawn was the sole time when it was both cool enough to run and bright enough to see the trail easily. Despite the effort he knew he'd put forth during a daily schedule of activities that might include anything from drill with his unit to working in the fields upriver, he preferred to begin most mornings with a run. It was a habit begun in his youth as a high school athlete who ran cross-country, played football and wrestled, and which he'd carried on for more than thirty years since, down to the present day. As someone who pursued a military career, this natural inclination to activity had perhaps made PT a less odious chore for him than for some of his fellows over the years. The exertion had always served a twin purpose, both conditioning his body and clearing his mind, allowing him to face the coming day with as much equanimity as he could muster. Though there'd been times past when no matter how far he ran, he couldn't muster much of it at all…

He found it easier to summon that mental state now than he had in many years. Some of that was no doubt due to the peace that he and Jack had finally made between themselves a year ago. Despite telling Tesni he suspected the absence of any search team from Earth was because they thought he was dead, he still worried about his friend's fate in random moments. But the knowledge that he had made amends and cleared the air with Jack, no matter what had happened afterwards, gave Cromwell more peace of mind than he'd known in a long time.

Another source for the increased sense of peace that had begun to settle in his soul these days was, of course, Tesni herself. Their marriage was definitely good for him, he knew, and he certainly hoped it was as beneficial for her. She'd seemed happy these past three weeks as they embarked on their shared life, and he found he could easily picture them growing old together — still happily married two, perhaps even three decades hence if he were lucky.

He'd be nearing eighty by that latter point, and would have long outlived his father at either of them. Owen Cromwell had died of a sudden heart attack at the age of fifty-two, when his sole remaining son was a junior at the University of Tennessee. By contrast, Clarence Cromwell — the colonel's grandfather — had lived to see his eightieth birthday, passing peacefully in his sleep not long afterward when the colonel was a young second lieutenant at Nellis, his first duty station.  _If the job doesn't get me, here's hoping I take after Grandpa and not Dad._  It was another thought that hadn't crossed his mind from the end of the Gulf War until the day he'd rappelled into a freak gravity well with Jack at his side. If at any time in the eight-plus years between those events the dangerous job he'd chosen  _had_  gotten him, he knew he'd likely have regarded his own death as a relief, more than anything. Now, however, although he had a similar and no less dangerous job, he also had something to live for.

He reached the crossroads where a connecting trail led off toward the fields and orchards that supplied a portion of Llanavon's food and turned onto it, slowing marginally in compensation for the gentle upward slope. At the top of the rise, the terrain flattened before rising again. This pattern repeated twice more over the next couple of klicks as the trail climbed the terraced hill. Cromwell followed it until just before the beanfield, where a broader trail skirted the cultivated land, looping back toward the river and following it through the trees to join the main trail that led from Llanavon to the compass circle and the stargate. The downward grade toward the river was a trial for legs fatigued by the upward push just completed and he worked to control both speed and stride while his breathing and heart rate began to fall off from what they'd been during the earlier climb.

The circuit he followed this morning was his normal routine, and by the time he reached the river itself he generally was in the zone where mind and body had reached a certain harmonic equilibrium, his mind clear and his legs moving nearly of their own accord. Today was no different, and he loped along the riverbank at a reduced pace, beginning a cool-down phase that would see him re-enter the village ready for a visit to the baths and the commencement of the day's tasks.

As he neared the village, he approached the place where yet another trail met the one he followed, just before the turnoff leading to the compass circle. The soft thud of footsteps reached his ears from beyond the screen of trees and brush before he reached the confluence of the two lesser trails, and he slowed slightly lest he collide with whomever was coming. He suspected he knew the other runner's identity, and was rewarded a moment later when Tesni appeared, turning onto the trail just ahead of him and at a pace that matched his own. The colonel drew up alongside her with a smile that she echoed, the two of them unconsciously falling into stride together as they covered the last half-klick to the gate in the village wall.

He'd discovered early on in their acquaintance that her daily routine mirrored his own in this regard, when he'd encountered her early one morning perhaps a week after his arrival, running flat-out along the road that led to Dinas Coedwyg. The next day, she'd shown him some of her favorite routes along the local trails and then left him to his own devices, perhaps sensing even then that his exertions had more than one goal. He and Tesni could of course choose to share the entirety of their morning run, and in recent months they sometimes did. Despite his slightly longer stride, she had little trouble matching his speed; neither did she lack his endurance. The gap of thirteen or fourteen years — depending on whose calendar he was using — between their ages clearly helped to make up for differences in gender and training, bringing them close in line in this, at least. Still, Cromwell knew his bride was by now well aware of his craving for some small measure of solitude in which to order his thoughts on any given day. He did this best while physically engaged, and so she accompanied him on his morning run solely at his invitation, otherwise joining him only for this last stretch after following a different route of her own choosing.

She seemed wholly unperturbed at this arrangement, and when he'd recently asked her whether she were indeed content with it, she'd smiled and responded, "Do you think you're the only one who needs some time alone now and then, Nye? We're not so different, and this is one more thing in which I suspect we're more alike than either of us may have thought."

They slowed to a walk as they approached the village gate. A gentle breeze rustled the foliage, the moving breath of air raising gooseflesh on the colonel's sweat-damp, naked back even as it promised another hot, humid day to come. He looked forward to visiting the baths and then enjoying a cup of tea and some breakfast before the heat of the day began to assert itself. Today was a non-drill day, and he knew he would spend most of it in meetings with Cadogan, along with the  _cadlywydd_ 's other senior staff in local residence. There was also the inevitable paperwork — well, 'waxwork' given the use of diptychs for much of it — that went with command of a military unit, even one so small as his own.  _At least I'll get to spend most of the day in the shade._

"Don't forget, tomorrow is Tegwyn's birthday," Tesni reminded him as they crossed the village square toward home. "The family are planning a small party for her at Bennaeth Bod in the afternoon, leading into the village gather night tomorrow evening."

He grinned. "So Bennaeth Bod will be overrun with teenaged boys, I take it?" Tegwyn would be turning fifteen on the morrow. Tesni's niece was blossoming into a lovely young woman, and Cromwell knew she had her share of admirers among Llanavon's complement of adolescent boys, most of whom were friends of her brother. Ris was a bit protective of his younger sister, though so far none of the other boys had managed to offend. The colonel chuckled inwardly, recalling dynamics within his own social circle at around the same age.

Although Vietnam had unfortunately deprived him of Nick's presence, he'd nevertheless taken the bulk of his far more extroverted brother's advice — dispensed via letters while Nick had been in the Army — to heart and at least attempted to employ it in high school. Being naturally on the shy side, however, he'd still found himself engaged more often in admiration from afar than direct interaction when it came to his female classmates. It wasn't until college that he'd found himself becoming anything resembling confident when it came to women, and even that had come about only after he'd donned the uniform of an AFROTC cadet. Controversy over the ongoing war in Vietnam meant the sight of a military uniform reaped mixed reactions on campus, but a number of women seemed to be attracted to male cadets. This wasn't the reason he'd opted to enroll in ROTC; a chance at tuition money and a genuine desire to serve his country had driven that decision. In truth, he'd found even the positive attention he'd sometimes garnered in uniform to be its own source of embarrassment, but his first real girlfriend had come along after he'd made his commitment by accepting an AFROTC scholarship for his sophomore through senior years. He and Pam had chosen to part company midway through his junior year, and he'd opted afterward to concentrate on his studies and preparation for his coming military career rather than actively pursuing the dating scene… but it had been fun while it lasted.

Here in Llanavon, it was a foregone conclusion that virtually every young person, male or female, would serve the  _Am Rhyddid_  in some capacity upon reaching adulthood regardless of whatever other livelihood they might also pursue. Ris and Tegwyn were already training in that regard, with Cromwell himself as one of their instructors. He reflected privately that Tegwyn likely had little need of her brother's protection. Not only were most of the local boys well-behaved, but Tegwyn, despite her diminutive size, was perfectly capable of taking care of herself should any of them attempt to cross a line with her. The rather spectacular bruise she'd given her brother during a sparring session the previous week was ample evidence of this, and the colonel had been hard-pressed not to chuckle when she'd delivered the blow that caused it. The look of surprise on Ris' face had been priceless, although after ascertaining that the injury was largely confined to the young man's pride, Cromwell had quickly turned the incident into a teaching moment on the importance of never underestimating an opponent, even one whose measure you thought you had long since taken.

"Yes, and Idris has suggested you might help him with crowd control," joked Tesni.

"Oh, has he?" The colonel chuckled aloud this time at his brother-in-law's droll, dry sense of humor, even delivered secondhand via Tesni. He saw in Idris occasional glimpses of what he suspected Nick might have been like by middle age, even though Idris was younger than himself rather than older, as Nick had been. There was just something in Tesni's brother that echoed portions of his own brother's character, and as a result Cromwell felt a kinship with him that went beyond the adoption and marriage that made them family in the eyes of the Pridanic community. "It'll cost him."

Tesni gave him a sidelong smile. "Hmmm. What's your price, so I can tell him?"

He laughed again. "I'll decide that after I've taken a good look at his wine cellar." Bennaeth Bod did in fact boast a rather nice wine cellar, which Idris and Cadogan kept well-stocked both with Tyr Awyri vintages and others brought in from elsewhere among the Five Worlds. Cromwell was far from being a wine connoisseur, but he knew what he liked when he encountered it and both Tesni and Cadogan, along with Idris himself, had seen to the education of the colonel's palate with regard to what the Celtic worlds had to offer. He had taken readily to their instruction, conducted as it was in the context of family dinners.

"Mercenary," Tesni said, chuckling.

"There's a first time for everything," he replied with another grin.

 

 

Cromwell found Cadogan in the baths. The  _cadlywydd_  lounged in the facility's soaking pool, flanked by Nenniaw and Gerlad, the three of them deep in conversation.

"Good morning, Neirin," said Cadogan by way of greeting. "I trust you passed a pleasant night?"

It was the  _cadlywydd_ 's standard formula for a morning greeting, and Cromwell smiled. "Yes, thank you." He dropped the pair of sandals he carried to the floor beside a nearby bench, then set a towel-wrapped bundle on the bench itself, extracting clean clothing and placing it in one of the wall storage cubes provided before laying out soap, razor and washcloth.

Taking a seat, he began to unlace the combat boots he'd worn on his arrival through the stargate. He'd had to replace the laces with new cording recently, but the boots themselves were still in good shape. The colonel didn't wear them for drill or maneuvers anymore as he had long since acquired a perfectly serviceable pair of the sturdy brown leather boots that formed a standard part of the  _Am Rhyddid_  uniform, such as it was. He still insisted on wearing his watch, but felt he could pass that off as found technology, having seen Cadogan and some of the other Tok'bel wear personal chronometers on occasion. It was less easy to explain a pair of boots in a style noticeably different from that worn by his men, and while laced boots weren't uncommon for general use among the Pridani, the cut of USAF standard-issue differed enough from the local version to invite questions. They made good running shoes, though, or at least he was accustomed to running in them. If he wore the loose trews in which he exercised over them rather than tucked in, most of what set them apart was hidden.

Here, in the presence only of men who knew the peculiarities of his origin if not its details, the colonel didn't bother to hide his unique footwear as he removed it. After tugging off his unlaced boots he stripped to the skin, taking up soap and cloth before turning to the washing pool. He stepped in, finding the water comfortable at this time of day.

 _Getting due for another trip to the barber,_  he observed while washing his hair. He had kept his hair regulation-length or even shorter throughout his entire Air Force career, and since coming to Tir Awyr he'd allowed it to grow only that slight bit truly necessary to blending in with the local population. Thankfully, the men of Llanavon tended to wear their hair fairly short as well; Cromwell wasn't sure he could have dealt with having his own much longer than its current length, not quite an inch beyond what he'd been accustomed to. He'd adjusted well enough to the local style of clothing and ways of doing everyday tasks, but retaining what little he could of his prior life brought him a sense of comfort and continuity. While it was true that he felt less need now to hold tightly to his past as an anchor in his present than he had perhaps six or eight months ago, that didn't mean he was willing to give it up altogether.

He completed his ablutions while listening to the conversation between Cadogan and his companions in the next pool. Most of it centered around the unit under Nenniaw's command, and Cromwell got the sense that the senior  _filwriad_  was delivering an informal report. Moving to the shaving mirror, he reviewed the situation in his own unit, mentally composing a report that he could give to the  _cadlywydd_  verbally, even though he knew he would later have to make a written version as well. Cadogan's memory for detail was uncanny, and the colonel wondered how much of that was the man's own ability and how much was a product of his symbiotic relationship with Sabar. Either way, he'd quickly discovered that if you told Cadogan something, the  _cadlywydd_ retained it. Nevertheless, written records were kept of most things, and Cromwell suspected that much of this was also duplicated in whatever data storage was connected to the electronic tablet devices used by the Tok'bel. Certainly he'd seen Cadogan and Sabar make use of one on a regular basis.

Cromwell finished shaving — the habit of going clean-shaven was something else he was glad to note was common among Pridanic men as well — and joined the others in the soaking pool. The hot water felt good on muscles gone tight with the exertion of his run and the other exercises he generally put himself through most mornings.

He knew that Nenniaw and most of the other local command personnel followed similar routines, as did those under them even outside of what passed for group PT among the  _Am Rhyddid_. Just because most of your soldiers were also farmers and craftsmen, that didn't mean you could field a fighting force that wasn't fit and expect to get anywhere. Nor could you lead a fit fighting unit effectively if you didn't push yourself hard enough to serve as an example. What was comparatively easy at twenty-five or thirty-five might take more effort at forty-seven or forty-eight, but the colonel prided himself on his ability to match the majority of his men in most contests — even besting many of them, despite being older than even the eldest among them by a handful of years.

He reflected again that one thing he found truly impressive about Tesni was in fact the extent to which she could keep up with him in trail running, considering her gender and slightly shorter legs. Given how hard he pushed himself and measured his own abilities against those of the younger men in his command, he found himself hard-pressed to believe that the mere age differential between himself and his wife could fully account for her matching him as well as she did, though it certainly must be a factor. Still, he figured either he was losing more ground than he'd anticipated at this point in his life — and his men with him, for some reason —or there was another element at work of which he was unaware. The first possibility was cause for concern, while the latter mystified him.

Leaning back against the side of the pool, he stretched his legs, flexing his ankles as the water lapped about his chest. "By thunder, that feels good," he commented.

"Long run this morning?" inquired Nenniaw.

"No longer than usual," the colonel replied. "I took the hill trail yesterday, and I think I'm still feeling it." The hill trail, true to its name, ran out past the tilled fields and into the hills beyond, working its way up- and down-slope among the orchards. It was in fact an access route for those orchards, but Cromwell and others often used it for hiking and running as well.

"Did Tesni go with you?" asked Cadogan.

The colonel shook his head. "On the hill trail? No, she ran the route she usually takes, at least as far as I know."

The  _cadlywydd_  nodded. "I see. Actually, though, I meant to ask about today."

Gerlad took up the thread of Cadogan's explanation. "I saw you coming back into the village together just a while ago, and mentioned it. Cadogan thought perhaps you had run the same trails today."

Cromwell supposed that was a logical assumption. "No, not today. Lots of days I'm so busy that a run is my only private time to think," he admitted. "Tesni knows that. I think she probably takes the same approach, to be honest."

Another nod from Cadogan. "She often has. Maybe not so much when she was training for a race, but on a normal day, certainly."

 _A race?_  An alert began chiming softly in the background of the colonel's thoughts. "I'm sorry?"

Nenniaw grinned and took up the conversation. "A race. You know, a footrace, like the one held last month, before the heat got so bad. That young lady Ris likes so much won it, remember?"

He did remember. Young Nia had managed to cover herself with glory, earning even more admiration from his protégé. While the Pridani didn't have anything remotely resembling the scholastic sports structure common to American schools, physical culture was important to them and he knew that many of their youth — though not exclusively youth — enjoyed training and competing in athletic contests and games as representatives of their communities in a manner not dissimilar to that of the ancient Greeks. The race Nia won had included runners from throughout the district surrounding Dinas Coedwyg, and had strongly resembled the cross-country meets in which Cromwell himself had participated as a teen.

"I take it Tesni used to do the same thing? She's never mentioned it to me."

Cadogan laughed. "I'm surprised, though I suppose I shouldn't be. Tesni's never been one for self-promotion, but yes, she used to compete in quite a few races and other events when she was a young girl, and even into her early twenties. She hasn't competed in the older groups, though, even though I've suggested it more than once. I think she's afraid of spoiling things for everyone else."

Now Cromwell was beyond curious. "All right, what is it you haven't told me, Cadogan?"

His uncle fixed him with an innocent gaze. "Me? It isn't my story to tell, Neirin."

The colonel wasn't having any. "Cadogan…"

Beside him, Nenniaw stifled a laugh as the  _cadlywydd_  waved his hands in mock surrender. "Well, I certainly hope she doesn't have some reason for not having told you this, Neirin, because she'll have my hide," Cadogan began. The merry look on his face belied any real concern over the likelihood of his niece's retaliation. "Tesni didn't just run the races she was in; she won nearly all of them. For several years in a row. She set a speed record at the age of twenty that still hasn't been broken in this district, by any age or either gender, and it was on an endurance course."

The pieces fell into place, and Cromwell barely kept his jaw from dropping. So his wife had been a star athlete in her youth. Clearly she had taken care to maintain her abilities, once honed. It was one more thing they had in common, except that her record far outshone his. He hadn't been any sort of athletic star, merely the sort of mid-grade, hard-working participant needed on nearly every team. It was enough. He'd never entertained any fantasies about winning football scholarships or competing in the Olympics. He'd always played for fun and self-satisfaction, no matter what the sport.

It sounded like Tesni had taken things more seriously than that, though now she seemed to run for her own enjoyment and well-being. It explained her ability to match him on the trail, however. "I'm almost afraid to ask this, Cadogan, but you wouldn't happen to recall exactly what that record was, would you?"

Cadogan told him. A moment's conversion in his head gave the colonel its equivalent in the Earth terms with which he'd grown up, and he resisted the urge to laugh in relief. Tesni could have been an Olympic hopeful, on his home world. He knew that he had never come close to her lifetime best. Even fifteen years on, she was fast, but at least now he knew he'd made no mistake in timing himself on his own runs.  _Good grief, I was beginning to worry there. Now I don't feel so bad._

"I had no idea," he admitted. "She's never said a word to me about any of it."

The  _cadlywydd_  shrugged. "That's Tesni for you. We were all quite proud of her, and still are. But I suppose I'm not surprised she never mentioned it to you, and it isn't something you'd necessarily hear about in casual conversation." He grinned. "If you're worried about keeping up with her, don't be."

Cromwell chuckled. "I'm not, at the moment. Ask me again in a few years, though."  _Like when I'm fifty, and she's still in her thirties. That'll be interesting, I don't doubt. Dear God._

His remark had set the other three to laughing. The colonel thought he detected an odd, faraway look in Cadogan's eyes, behind the mirth, though it vanished before he could be certain.

As the quartet settled back into conversation, they were joined by Armagil, Cromwell's erstwhile company clerk who now served as Gerlad's occasional assistant, although he was still a member of the colonel's unit. The young man had likely come from a workout of his own, for he walked in sweat-covered, his dark hair plastered against his scalp. After a wash and a shave, he eased himself into the soaking pool next to his CO. "Good morning,  _filwriad_  Neirin," he said respectfully, before turning to the others and repeating, "Good morning."

Cromwell returned the greeting with a smile. "Good morning, Armagil." He glanced back to Cadogan, who had just begun to outline an idea when the younger man joined them. "Now then, what was this you were saying about Goa'uld ships?"

Cadogan shrugged. "It isn't my idea; it's Sabar's. The Tok'bel have some craft we've managed to collect, mainly ger'tak, the small fighter ships the Goa'uld deploy from the ha'tak carriers for space and atmospheric fighting. They aren't much good without a carrier craft, because they only have short-range capability. They can't get above the speed of light, or even close to it, so they're only useful within a planetary system or in a localized volume of space. Still, he's convinced that some of the  _Am Rhyddid_  personnel ought to be trained to fly them, in case we get an opportunity to use them."

Cromwell was aware that what Cadogan called ger'tak were the same craft referred to as 'death gliders' in the mission reports he'd been given to read, back on Earth. Not quite analogous to a fighter jet, perhaps, given that their range relative to the area of operations involved in dealing with the Goa'uld was more limited than that of an F-15, say, was in relation to the area of operations involved in most terrestrial conflicts. Besides, you could refuel a jet in flight to increase its range, while the problem with a ger'tak was clearly a matter of not having the right engine to make any kind of long-range journey on its own. "If you don't mind my asking, Cadogan, what good will it do knowing how to fly them if we can't get them to where they're needed?"

The  _cadlywydd_  nodded. "A fair question. Sabar had the thought that perhaps we might manage to relieve Bel of one of his ha'tak at some future point, and if so, having trained pilots and weaponry specialists prepared to make immediate use of the ger'tak it could carry would give us an advantage, coming as it would on the heels of Bel's surprise over losing his ha'tak in the first place."

Cromwell goggled, as did both Nenniaw and Armagil. Only Gerlad remained largely unperturbed, although Cromwell thought he could detect a faint sense of unease in his expression. Obviously, Cadogan's aide had heard this plan already and was less than completely sanguine about its chances of success. He couldn't blame the younger man, for he felt the same way. Admittedly, the idea did have merit from a strategic point of view. The ability to bring the fight to Bel and his personnel on a level closer to Bel's own capabilities would no doubt be of tremendous benefit to the rebels. But contemplating the danger involved in attempting to divest the Goa'uld tyrant of such a vessel was enough to strike trepidation into even the stoutest of hearts.

It was Nenniaw who found his voice first. "Cadogan, is Sabar out of his mind?"

The  _cadlywydd_  chuckled. "Funny; that's what Kaldin said too, more or less."

Cromwell searched his memory to connect the name to an individual.  _Oh, yes._ He'd met Kaldin a year ago and had encountered him several times since, mostly in the context of keeping watch at the stargate. His host — Joron? — was a tall man, perhaps some sixty years old or so if Cromwell's guess was any good, with the look of a veteran fighter about him and a physical manner somewhat at odds with his apparent age. The colonel had never managed to learn which of Bel's captive planets had been Joron's original home before he took up life with Kaldin, if indeed Joron came from any of the Celtic worlds at all. He got the impression that Kaldin's role among the Tok'bel wasn't much different from his own or Nenniaw's among the Pridanic rebels, occupying a position that seemed to rank not far below Sabar himself, and occasionally advising him. The Tok'bel leader certainly seemed to value his judgment.

"I'm guessing Sabar claims to have a scheme for doing this?" asked Nenniaw.

"You'll remember the report from Galla last month, when we learned about Bel's plans for a new ha'tak?" Cadogan glanced around the circle, receiving nods from the others. Even Armagil knew of the report via Gerlad, despite not having been present at the meeting, which had involved only senior officers. Both the Tok'bel and the  _Am Rhyddid_  had operatives inside the shipyards, the former posing as Goa'uld engineers and the latter seeded among the human laborers. They'd carried out a program of sabotage on a number of al'kesh and tel'tak vessels right around the time of his own arrival, Cromwell had later learned. He suspected he knew what the  _cadlywydd_  was about to suggest.

Nor did Cadogan disappoint him. "Sabar feels that we ought to be able to take control of the ship just as it is nearing completion and launch. With our own people on the inside, we should be able to set things up in such a way that we can simply pluck it directly from Bel's grasp just before his own personnel would otherwise take command. With luck, it may even have its own complement of ger'tak already loaded aboard, meaning we'd gain an extra measure of mobile firepower."

The colonel had to admire the sheer audacity of the idea, even as he wondered how in hell they would pull it off. Still, he knew that a small human force had on at least one occasion managed to gain control of a ha'tak for the time necessary to destroy it, and had done so while the vessel was not only under the direct command of its Goa'uld master but also both fully crewed by Jaffa  _and_  underway. By comparison to that, he realized, this should be a much simpler operation. Not to mention that they'd have far more personnel available to carry it out than a four-person team... "How long do we estimate before the ha'tak is close to completion?" he asked.

Nenniaw turned and stared at him. "Don't tell me you seriously mean to encourage this lunacy?"

The colonel saw Armagil's eyes go wide at Nenniaw's outburst, and suppressed a mixed reaction that was half shudder, half chuckle. To say that the  _Am Rhyddid_ 's style of operation and command was relaxed in comparison to that of the U.S. Air Force was rather like describing the Sahara as being 'a bit on the dry side'. A certain amount of dissension even within the officer corps was very nearly a given in any military organization at one point or another, but for one senior officer to argue openly with another over the plans of their superior in the presence of both that superior  _and_  a non-com would have been virtually unheard-of in the circles he'd moved in a year ago, nor would it have passed without repercussion. Here, under the relatively informal practices of the  _Am Rhyddid_ , it happened with regularity and went nearly unremarked-upon. Yet morale,  _esprit de corps_  and the level of good discipline in the field were as high among the Celtic rebels as he'd seen them in any outfit with which he had experience — including his own 121st Special Tactics, whom he'd ruled with an iron hand. The men of the 121st had seemed to thrive nonetheless, but if he was learning anything from his exposure to the local way of doing things, it was that there was generally more than one way to achieve a goal.

"I was only asking for information at the moment," he told Nenniaw mildly.

Cadogan chuckled at their exchange. "Assuming they get started on it within the next month or two, as indicated, we both expect it will take just about two years to complete. So we'll have lots of time to prepare. Ha'tak are large ships, but they follow a well-defined plan, and the Galla shipyards have plenty of personnel. The biggest obstacle is raw materials, but we can look for Bel to divert resources from elsewhere in his domain if he has to in order to get this done. He's most likely feeling threatened by Moccas, at least based on reports from Tok'bel operatives within his organization. He'll want to have every advantage that an extra vessel can give him in case Moccas mounts another incursion into his territory. In Sabar's opinion, it's only a matter of time before Moccas does precisely that." He grinned as he continued, "What's more, he aims to find a way to carry out this operation so that while we get a capital ship for our own use, Moccas gets the blame."

'Audacious' didn't begin to cover it, Cromwell decided. 'Outrageous' might be closer. And yet… well, wasn't blowing up a pair of the same vessels in near-Earth orbit an outrageous undertaking as well? Granted that there hadn't been much choice. Still, what Jack and his teammates had done was little short of insane, and it had succeeded. He still remembered gazing up in shock at the brilliant glow in the sky over Ramstein Airbase in Germany on Christmas Eve more than a year and a half ago now, and wondering what in hell he was seeing. When he'd found out a couple of months later, shock had given way to awe even as he'd reflected that if there were one human being in the universe who might have been likely to pull off such an endeavor, it would of course have been Jack O'Neill.

Perhaps it was time to take a page from Jack's book, and pull off something outrageous of his own. Sabar certainly seemed to think it was possible, and Cromwell was pretty sure that Cadogan trusted Sabar's instincts in this, if the conversation here were any indication. If Sabar thought it could be done, and Cadogan was game to try, who was he to say otherwise, when he could be helping to make it happen?

"I like it," he said.


	38. Learning to Fly

_I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace  
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —  
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod  
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,  
Put out my hand and touched the face of God._

— From the poem “High Flight” by Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr., American aviator and poet who served  
in the Royal Canadian Air Force (b. June 9, 1922 — d. December 11, 1941)

 

Autumn leaves whirled down on a stiff breeze as Cromwell and Cadogan walked the trail from Llanavon to the compass circle, accompanied by Gerlad. Despite the occasional gust, which quickly passed, the day was pleasantly warm, and sunlight illuminated the brilliant reds and golds of the forest. This late in Medi — the local equivalent of September — the heat of summer had long since given way to milder conditions. Daytime tended to bring comfortable temperatures, while nights were generally cool enough to require a cloak. If the previous year were any indication, Cromwell knew the first frost was likely to be no more than three weeks away.

Nearly two months had passed since Cadogan had first revealed Sabar’s plan to obtain Bel’s new ha’tak by infiltrating the shipyards at Galla. Once the initial shock at the Tok’bel’s audacity had worn off, Nenniaw had declared himself in favor of the plan. Cromwell still wasn’t sure to what extent, if any, this might be due to his own assertion of support. Nenniaw was, after all, technically his superior by virtue of seniority among the _Am Rhyddid_ , although Cadogan had seen fit not only to give Cromwell a command of his own a year ago, but also to include him among the rebellion’s senior officers shortly thereafter. The _cadlywydd_ solicited his advice as often as Nenniaw’s, and Cromwell had worried at first that the other man might feel put out by this. He’d since come to the conclusion that Nenniaw wasn’t bothered in the least, and seemed actually to welcome his contributions to the planning and execution of their operations. On occasion he even went so far as to defer to the colonel’s judgment with regard to this or that element of strategy or logistics. Like Cadogan, he tended to keep his curiosity regarding the source of Cromwell’s expertise carefully hidden most of the time, although the colonel knew it was there.

At any rate, Cadogan and Sabar had begun to move forward, if slowly, with preliminary preparations. According to Tok’bel and _Am Rhyddid_ observers insinuated among the staff of the Galla shipyards, construction of the massive vessel had just begun, and its estimated completion date was somewhere in the early autumn two years hence. On the basis of this timetable, Sabar had recently announced his intention to begin assembling and training a squadron of human pilots for the ger’tak fighters that the ha’tak would be able to carry, and also to train another unit of the rebels to serve as the ha’tak’s crew. Toward that end, Cadogan had solicited from among his own senior officers both suggestions of likely flight candidates and volunteers, as the pilots would themselves require leadership.

More comfortable with ground combat and sabotage operations than with the idea of space or even atmospheric flight, most of the _filwriadau_ had exhibited a reluctance to step forward themselves for flight training, although each had suggested several candidates from among their own personnel. Despite his own personal familiarity with the principles of atmospheric flight — even if he’d usually been a passenger and had often parachuted out halfway through the ride to run a mission on the ground — Cromwell too had held back from volunteering, though he did recommend Armagil and Tathan from his own team as pilot candidates. Space flight was, after all, a completely different animal from flight occurring within a planet’s atmosphere, the colonel reminded himself.

Not long afterward, Cadogan had approached him in a manner reminiscent of the way in which he’d broached the subject of Cromwell’s accepting command of the team which he’d now led for a year. “Both Armagil and Tathan will make good pilots, I think,” the _cadlywydd_ had told him over cups of ale in a corner of _Llwyn Gelyn,_ which translated from Pridanic as the Holly Bush, a small public house just off Dinas Coedwyg’s town square that was frequented by most of the _Am Rhyddid_ ’s senior staff as well as the general populace. _Neidio Ceirw,_ or the Leaping Stag, was a similar establishment which operated in Llanavon.

Cromwell was privately amused by the names of these places, especially the Stag, as he’d encountered more than one small pub bearing some variant of that name on his homeworld, both stateside and overseas. He supposed some things were more or less universal, including the naming conventions for taverns. For that matter, he remembered reading that in Roman Britain, a holly bush had been a common sign used for such establishments. By now he was certain he’d seen the thread of Roman influence throughout the Pridanic and other Celtic cultures he’d encountered among the Five Worlds. It was faint and obviously of ancient vintage, but it was unmistakably there, providing clear evidence that the ancestors of these peoples had been brought here from Earth at some point after contact with Rome. Taken together with the history given him by Tesni, his own observations regarding the difference in the length of the Tir Awyri year from that of Earth, and the knowledge that the Pridani numbered their years beginning from their own ancestors’ first arrival on Tir Awyr somewhat less than two millennia ago, he estimated their departure from Earth as having been nearly at the end of the first century AD, which meshed well with what he recalled of the interaction between Britain and Rome. There would have been ample opportunity for enough of Roman ways to have rubbed off on the local tribes for that influence to have survived their relocation to another world and been propagated down across nineteen centuries, just as Roman customs had survived on Earth.

“They’re good men, and up to any challenge, so I’m happy to recommend them,” he’d said to Cadogan. “Tathan’s as steady as they come, and so is Armagil. He’s already pretty busy, of course, since he’s been assisting Gerlad. But he can handle it.”

“I’m sure he can,” agreed the _cadlywydd_. “Armagil would make a fine officer, for that matter, and I think he’s ready.” The rebels promoted their officers from among the general membership based on skill and experience. “But Sabar would still like to see at least one or two of the senior staff take up piloting as well, and so would I.”

Cromwell had gone silent for a moment at Cadogan’s remark, turning his ale cup on the wooden surface of the table. “So no one has come forward?” he’d asked, as the silence grew uncomfortable.

“No one,” Cadogan confirmed. “Neirin, I hate to impose, but out of all of them you’re perhaps the most adaptable, and it occurs to me that you might serve as an example.”

The colonel looked up sharply. “The most adaptable? What makes you say that?”

“Oh, come on. Do I need to spell it out?” Cadogan gestured with his own cup. “You’ve had barely a year to adjust to what has to be a very different existence from what you’re used to, and you’ve managed both to do that and to carry out a major role in this organization at the same time. Not everyone is aware of that, of course, but _I_ know it, and so does Sabar. All I’m asking you to do is add another learning experience to the list. Tok’ra and Goa’uld vessels use identical technology, and piloting them isn’t actually that difficult. If you’d be willing to learn, I’m fairly certain it would set a good example for the others — both the senior officers and the enlisted personnel who’ve been recommended.”

Discomfited, Cromwell had hidden his reaction in his cup, taking a long drink of ale while he composed a response. “You don’t ask for much, do you, Cadogan?”

The _cadlywydd_ fixed him with an earnest stare. “I wouldn’t ask if I had any doubts about your ability to learn this,” he said quietly. “I’ll admit I haven’t a clue where you learned half of what you’ve shown that you know, but the fact that you know it is enough for me. And it tells me that you can learn anything you need to, if you put your mind to it.” He took a sip of ale before continuing. “I’m aware that I’ve asked what may seem like quite a lot of you in your time among us, and if you feel I’ve asked too much, you’re free to say so.”

Taking a deep breath, Cromwell shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t say you have, Cadogan. It’s just that… well, setting an example for the men in my own unit is one thing. That’s part of the job description. But beyond that, I don’t think of myself as any kind of example for others to follow, and I’m not sure how comfortable I am with the idea, to be honest.”

“Someone has to do it,” observed Cadogan. “Why _not_ you?”

“I don’t know.” The colonel shrugged, at a loss for a better answer.

Cadogan smiled at him across the table. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You don’t have to take up piloting ger’tak for me in order to be of help. But Sabar and I could use another person — someone who isn’t Tok’bel — who knows how to pilot the tel’tak. We’ll eventually need people who can handle the al’kesh as well, and it occurs to me that if you learn to handle the control systems for both of these, then at the very least you can help train others. We’ll leave ger’tak aside for the moment. Fair enough?”

Put that way, how could he refuse? “Fair enough,” he’d agreed.

The result, a couple of weeks after that conversation, was this hike through the forest to Tir Awyr’s stargate in order to go to the Tok’bel base known as Caer Ynys. Cromwell had never visited the Tok’bel stronghold before, but Sabar’s small transport vessel, the tel’tak, was kept there when not in use, and today was to be the day the colonel learned to pilot it.

He had to admit that his trepidation was strongly tempered by a thrill of excitement. As a young boy, he’d eagerly read any number of science fiction stories involving spaceships, and from time to time he’d fantasized about being at the controls of such a craft. The Sixties had marked the culmination of the space race, as well as encompassing his later childhood and most of his teens. During this time he’d been well aware of how different the actual craft that carried men like Yuri Gagarin, Alan Shepard and John Glenn into space were from what was depicted in the works of authors like Heinlein and Asimov or on television shows like _Star Trek_ , which he’d watched as faithfully as he could given the busy schedule of sports, schoolwork and chores that had occupied his teenaged self. But that hadn’t kept him from dreaming about the day when mankind might design and use ships that made spaceflight similar to air travel. The advent of the space shuttle in the Eighties had brought that a bit closer, although it was still a far cry from the literature of his youth. By this time, of course, Cromwell had long since resigned himself to the fact that nothing like the vessels of his fantasies would be coming along in his own lifetime.

Quite by accident, it seemed he was about to get a taste of what he’d once only dreamed about, and he wondered momentarily whether his admittedly uncharacteristic reluctance to take on the task had been born of some unconscious desire to avoid shattering his old fantasies, should the experience prove less than fully satisfying. He shook off the feeling and turned his attention to Cadogan, who was speaking to him.

“So, are you looking forward to your first experience with the tel’tak, Neirin?”

Cromwell started. _Christ, what does he do, read minds?_ “I suppose I am,” he admitted cautiously. “I’m curious to see this base of Sabar’s, too.”

Cadogan chuckled. “I imagine you are. Though it’s basically a bunch of tunnels underground. There’s nothing terribly picturesque about it.”

“Even so, I’m curious anyway.” The colonel turned to Gerlad. “You’ve flown this tel’tak before, haven’t you?”

The _cadlywydd_ ’s aide nodded. “Many times. It really isn’t difficult, Neirin. But the more people who can pilot the craft we have, the better off we’ll be.” He grinned. “And I daresay you’ll enjoy it.”

“Hmph. That may be,” Cromwell allowed, hiding a smile. The closer he got to the actual doing of it, the more he was willing to admit — at least to himself — that the idea had appeal.

They reached the compass circle and the gate, and Gerlad dialed the address that would take them to Caer Ynys. Upon exiting the stargate in the Tok’bel stronghold, the colonel looked around, somewhat awed by the crystalline patterns of the tunnel walls. “Cadogan, this is amazing,” he said.

His friend chuckled again. “That’s a common reaction. The crystals grow in formation; these tunnels essentially construct themselves. That they’re aesthetically pleasing is really only a by-product. Still, if I had to live here all the time, I expect I’d get a bit claustrophobic.” Cadogan paused, his expression momentarily taking on the slightly distant look that indicated he was in conversation with his symbiote. “Sabar says that he would too, although many Tok’ra find the tunnels quite comfortable.”

A pair of other Tok’bel entered the chamber containing the stargate; Cromwell recognized Sefys and his host Duthac, along with Kaldin and Joron. Both Tok’bel sketched slight bows of greeting in Cadogan’s direction, and Cromwell watched as Cadogan engaged in the long blink that signified his giving control of his body to Sabar.

{“Welcome back,”} said Sefys, echoed by Kaldin a split second later.

{“It’s good to be back,”} said Sabar. {“You’ve both met Neirin ab Owein, haven’t you? He commands one of the rebel units from Llanavon.”}

Sefys nodded, and Kaldin smiled at Cromwell. {“Indeed I do remember meeting you, Neirin. Welcome to Caer Ynys.”}

Kaldin had always impressed him as very friendly, especially for a Tok’ra, and Cromwell returned the smile. “Thank you, Kaldin. It’s good to see you again.”

{“I wanted to show Neirin the base, and I’m going to be teaching him to pilot the tel’tak,”} Sabar explained. {“He’s recommended some good pilots for our ger’tak program, but it’s important that the _Am Rhyddid_ have officers who can control our other ships as well. Not to mention that if we’re very lucky, at some point we may have additional vessels… assuming we find ways to liberate them from Bel’s fleet, of course.”}

Sefys nodded. {“If we can, that will be excellent. In any case, having additional human pilots is a good thing.”} He inclined his head in the colonel’s direction.{“Thank you for volunteering. The success of Sabar’s idea depends on having enough people with the right skills, and while I realize this will be something very far outside of what you’re used to, you’ll be filling a crucial need.”}

“I’m happy to help,” Cromwell told him.

True to his word, Sabar first took the colonel on a tour of the base, with Gerlad tagging along and occasionally answering a question himself. The maze of tunnels led in all directions, and along the way they encountered other Tok’bel going about their daily business. Cromwell saw the dining area, meeting rooms, recreation facilities, and shared bathing chamber reminiscent of Llanavon’s baths, albeit with more modern accoutrements. Sabar capped things off with a look at his own quarters. {“This is fairly standard for any Tok’ra in terms of sleeping space and work space,”} he said, gesturing at the chamber containing a bed, a desk, a small table with two chairs, and an alcove that clearly served as a wardrobe. Another alcove catered to personal needs and included private bathing facilities. {“The shared baths are nice, but on occasion Cadogan and I really need just a bit of solitude,”} he explained. {“Even Tok’ra can feel that way from time to time, although you’ll rarely hear it admitted.”}

Leaving the residential complex, they turned down a long, narrow tunnel that led away from the main living and working portion of the base. At its end, Cromwell was almost surprised to encounter a door; the rest of the base hadn’t included any. _Must be hell for anyone who really wants to get a bit of privacy in this place,_ he reflected.

The door led to an airlock. The trio — four, counting Cadogan — stepped inside and Sabar cycled the lock, ceding control to Cadogan as the second door slid open to reveal an enormous crystalline chamber populated by Goa’uld-designed spacecraft. Dim lighting brightened as they entered, and Cromwell looked around in awe.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Cadogan asked, grinning.

The colonel only nodded, trying to find his voice. This was something straight out of his boyhood imagination and the pages of his favorite books, and here he stood in the middle of it. He turned slowly in a circle, looking around the subterranean hangar, taking in the sleek lines of the craft that stood in ranks of three, their metallic surfaces reflecting the diffuse lighting whose source he couldn’t pinpoint until he looked up and realized that the entire ceiling glowed softly. A long, low whistle escaped him. “Impressive… is certainly one word for it,” he managed.

Gerlad chuckled softly, echoed by Cadogan, who clapped the colonel on the shoulder. “Take a moment to look around if you like, and then when you’re ready, we’ll get on with it,” he said.

Cromwell paced slowly up one row of ger’tak. These, then, were the ships he’d read about in Jack’s mission reports. ‘Death Gliders’, his friend had called them, and Cromwell could see why. They certainly appeared deadly. Imposing in size, the craft had no discrete fuselage, being instead composed of a single aerodynamic shape that incorporated lift and control surfaces with the main body of the craft in unbroken lines. In this, they resembled the blended-wing aircraft design occasionally seen on Earth, as in the B-2 stealth bomber so recently put into operation by the US Air Force, only with oddly forward-swept wings. Armed with menacing-looking weapons similar to the _ma’tok_ he’d become used to handling, although in a much larger size, these craft would certainly strike fear into the heart of anyone caught in a strafing run. He shuddered inside as he imagined SG-1 caught on the ground while ger’tak plied the air above them, as he knew had happened on more than one occasion. Reading about it, he’d tried to relate the image to experiences he and Jack had shared on missions together, or that he’d encountered during his tenure in command of the 121 st. Seeing the actual vessels up close, however, gave a whole new dimension to what he’d envisioned.

Turning, he looked down a wide aisle toward the ‘front’ of the hangar — the area closest to what must be the entrance/egress doors for the vessels, at any rate. A larger ship sat there, parked where it had easy access to the doorway. He’d seen Sabar’s tel’tak before, as it had been used on a few of the missions in which the colonel had taken part over the past year. He’d only viewed it from the outside, however; today that would change. “I see ger’tak and the tel’tak, Cadogan. Where do the Tok’bel keep the other ship, the al’kesh?” He knew it was a much larger craft, so it stood to reason that the Tok’bel wouldn’t keep it in this same hangar with the others.

Cadogan gestured vaguely back toward the airlock by which they had entered the hangar. “Did you notice the other tunnel branching off a little way back, before we reached the airlock here? That leads to a much larger landing bay perhaps half a mile off. The al’kesh is there. It took the Tok’bel a while to construct a chamber large enough for it, because they had to actually work with the rock of this moon itself. Their crystal stock wasn’t sufficient to grow something that big.” He shrugged. “Sabar tells me that on board a ha’tak, the ger’tak bays would be sealed with only a selective forcefield rather than pressure doors, but here it’s necessary to both house and hide the craft, so the pressure doors are disguised to look like native rock from the outside. That opening is actually part of a canyon wall. But there’s a forcefield behind it, so that we don’t have to actually depressurize and repressurize the entire chamber when a ship enters or exits. The airlock we came through is only there as a backup measure in case something goes wrong with the field.”

Cromwell shook his head. Whenever he thought he’d wrapped his mind around his strange circumstances, something new popped up to remind him how utterly far removed he really was from the familiar world he’d known. _Spaceships, forcefields, alien lifeforms, artificial gravity, hyperdrives…_ He blinked and forced his thoughts back to the task at hand. “All right, I think I’m ready. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Moments later, he found himself nonplussed again, staring blankly at the reddish orb that occupied a good portion of the tel’tak’s flight console. “I don’t understand,” he said. “How does this work?”

Cadogan smiled. “When you make physical contact with the control orb, you can use a combination of thought and gesture to control the vessel. It does take some getting used to, but once you do, it’s quite easy. The most difficult thing is learning to interpret the feedback you get from the orb itself. You’ll feel sensations of heat, pressure, motion and vibration in your hands, but mostly what you’ll get are mental impressions that map to what the tel’tak is actually doing. Your sensory system will be linked via the orb to the ship’s own sensors for as long as you remain in contact with the orb.”

Apprehension returned in full. “I don’t know about this, Cadogan,” the colonel said weakly. “I’m a little out of my element.”

Gerlad stepped in. “I thought the same thing, Neirin. But it only took me a few sessions to get comfortable with the controls, and after that, everything else came easily.”

“I had the same experience as Gerlad, you know, before I became Sabar’s host,” Cadogan assured him. “Sabar taught me to operate this vessel a very long time ago, back when I was a much younger man and served as his aide myself, just as Gerlad serves now.”

Cromwell regarded the _cadlywydd_ from beneath raised eyebrows. “All right. I’ll give it a try,” he said cautiously, settling himself into the pilot’s seat. _Christ, what am I getting myself into here?_

“First, take a deep breath and clear your mind,” Cadogan instructed him. “I can tell you’re tense, and that won’t help you learn this.”

The colonel did his best to get a rein on his mental state, taking several deep breaths and willing his body and mind to relax. Eventually, he felt the tension drain away, or at least most of it did so. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Now what?”

“Place your hands on the orb, and tell me what you feel.”

He reached out and cupped the orb with both hands, pressing his palms lightly against its surface and extending his fingers to rest along its curves. There was a mild vibration, as though the crystalline sphere — for it was, he saw, a large smooth crystal — were noticing and reacting to his touch. The vibration died away almost as quickly as it began, replaced by a faint warmth. “There was vibration, and now heat. It’s like it knows I’m touching it,” he said in tones of wonder.

Cadogan chuckled. “It does, in a way. Oh, it’s not sentient or anything like that, but there’s a feedback mechanism tied to the artificial… well, I hesitate to call it intelligence, because it really isn’t, at least not as such… anyway, there’s a certain level of machine awareness, I guess you could call it, and it senses the operator’s touch and intentions, and will respond to them. I could get Garlen, our resident technology specialist, to explain all this in more detail, but at the moment I fear that would only confuse you more.”

“Yeah, probably. All right, so it knows I’m here. Now what do I do?”

Gerlad and Cadogan ran him through several exercises designed to accustom him to sensory feedback from the orb, and instructed him to visualize certain functions. To Cromwell’s surprise, the vessel’s systems responded, allowing him to control aspects of its operation with a whisper of thought and the merest suggestion of gestures against the crystalline sphere’s smooth surface. As he continued the exercises, he found that his level of comfort and confidence increased. There were flashes of imagery as he fed commands to the tel’tak under Cadogan’s direction, and he described these to the _cadlywydd_. “It’s like when I envision something happening and the ship does that thing, then it sends me an image of what it’s doing. Sometimes I can feel it, too.”

Cadogan nodded. “That’s precisely what should happen. The controls of a modern tel’tak are designed to deliver sensory feedback optimized for a human nervous system, since both Tok’ra and the Goa’uld have long had human hosts. That’s why Jaffa and unblended humans like Gerlad and yourself, or me in my younger days before I became Sabar’s host, can pilot the ships as well. All that’s happening right now is that your own sensory apparatus is learning to interpret signals from the orb and issue commands using the same pathways. Once you’ve gotten yourself attuned, you should be able to operate any vessel that uses the same technology right from first touch.”

The colonel was awestruck by the sophistication of the technology in use here, so far beyond anything in his prior experience. Given what he was learning about Goa’uld tech and the general level of scientific knowledge apparently available to them as a species — assuming that what the Tok’bel had mirrored what their Goa’uld counterparts could access as well — he was surprised that his own world had managed thus far to defend itself against the Goa’uld as well as it had. This line of thinking also fueled the lingering worry, never far from his mind, that the crisis which had served to land him here among the Tok’bel and the Pridani might have somehow compromised those defenses.

With an effort, he pushed the thought away, reminding himself that there was nothing he could do about it in his present circumstances, at least not without potentially jeopardizing Earth if what he feared were in fact _not_ the case. Even were he to return to his homeworld right this instant and find everything intact, surely there was little he could realistically bring to the table in terms of improving its defensive capabilities. The SGC already had access to the ma’tok staff weapons and zat’nik’tels he’d learned to use on Tir Awyr. They had some contact with the mainline Tok’ra, and would hopefully be even now learning what they could from them. _Would the Tok’ra teach them how to fly ships like these, or offer any technology at this level, though?_ Perhaps that was the best thing he could do for Earth, assuming he might eventually regain contact. He might not be able to provide the actual technology, but if he learned what he could about its use, then if anyone from the SGC proved capable of actually capturing Goa’uld craft, he at least could teach their operation, if the Tok’ra chose not to do so. He had no reason to suspect that they wouldn’t, of course, but also no reason to assume they would.

“This is amazing,” he told Cadogan. “How long does it generally take to really master, though?”

The older man laughed. “You’re already halfway there, Neirin. Let’s take a break right now, since you’ve been at it for over three hours, and then we’ll come back when you feel ready and work at it some more.”

 _Three hours?_ Cromwell checked his watch and saw that Cadogan was right. _Shit, it feels like maybe an hour, tops._ He’d been so immersed in what he was doing that time had flown by. “I can keep on right now, you know.”

Gerlad chuckled. “Neirin, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a break myself, and something to eat. I suspect the _cadlywydd_ feels similarly — don’t you, Cadogan?”

Cadogan grinned. “Something like that, yes. Neirin, trust me, this will get even easier if you rest for a bit and eat something. Let’s take an hour or two, and then when we come back, we’ll try some new exercises. There’s every chance we’ll have you actually taking the tel’tak out into orbit or even beyond before the day is over, but not if you wear yourself out too quickly. I know that what you’re doing doesn’t really feel like hard work, but your brain and sensory apparatus are actually putting in more effort than you realize.”

Cromwell decided not to argue. “Fine,” he said. “An hour, and then I really want to work on this some more.”

A rest period and a light meal brought back energy the colonel hadn’t realized he’d expended, and they soon returned to the tel’tak. Cromwell took the pilot’s seat once more, reaching out to re-establish contact with the control sphere. This time, he fell into rapport with the vessel’s systems far more quickly, extending control and awareness to run through a rapid inventory of its capabilities and resources. Glancing up from the orb without relinquishing contact, he noticed Cadogan regarding him with a look of satisfaction. “Do you feel ready to try actual flight?” asked the _cadlywydd_.

“If you think I am, then yes,” replied Cromwell. “Tell me something, though. I’ve been exploring the feedback I get from the systems and the engines, but I can’t quite decide exactly how the motive force functions. I think I’ll want to understand that before I try to make use of it.”

Cadogan nodded. “Wise thinking. You’re familiar with action and reaction, acceleration and velocity, inertia and momentum, correct?”

“Yes, of course.” Under the circumstances, his university physics classes might seem like a lifetime ago, but the colonel felt sure he’d retained enough knowledge to apply at least some of it in his present situation.

“Well, inertia isn’t as much of a factor here…” The _cadlywydd_ launched into an overview of the mechanics of Goa’uld flight technology that could only have been born of long association with Sabar, and probably with this Garlen person mentioned earlier, whom Cromwell had yet to meet.

After a few moments, the colonel held up a hand. “All right, I think I understood maybe half of that, but with any luck it’ll be the half I need.” He’d wrap his mind around the rest as he went along, he decided.

Cadogan chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry. The vessel itself will tell you most of what you need to know. Let’s get out where you can learn to make it do what it’s designed for.”

The _cadlywydd_ took over the controls temporarily, long enough to bring them out of the hangar — which Cromwell realized was quite well-camouflaged from the outside, once the massive doors had slid closed in the wake of their departure — and into space. “You’ll practice takeoff and landing, too, but first let’s get you accustomed to the way the tel’tak moves.”

The colonel nodded, his attention temporarily riveted by what was outside the vessel. Cadogan had brought them around the moon’s curving horizon as they glided up and away from the base, and the gas giant around which the moon orbited hove into view as the tel’tak turned slightly onto a new trajectory. Cromwell had never seen another world from space, other than on television, and he drank the image in. The planet was striated in a manner similar to Jupiter, its colors largely shading green and grey, its bulk filling much of the view. They were near the terminator, and the contrast between the sunlit dayside and dim night side was sharp and crisp, almost as if someone had painted a line dividing the planet in half. The colonel could make out the distant speck of another moon riding just off the dayside horizon, glowing yellowish-white against the infinite, star-scattered darkness beyond.

He suddenly felt very small, and very humbled. _My God. All this coming and going through stargates is one thing, but how easy it is to forget what space is really like. Vast, and cold, and here we are in orbit around this clump of matter, itself in orbit around a ball of burning gas that’s only one of uncounted numbers… and even it’s tiny, too. What the hell am I doing out here, anyway?_

No, he realized a moment later. He knew what he was doing: the only thing he could do and feel it was right, that it mattered. He might be hell and gone from Earth and from everything he’d known for most of forty-seven years, but the time he’d spent with the Pridani and with the _Am Rhyddid_ had made it clear where his duty now lay, especially when he had no way back to where he came from. He had a job to do that wasn’t much different from what he’d had before, and if that job entailed things he’d never thought to encounter in his personal experience, well, some of that was a bonus. Moments like this might come as a shock, but they came with beauty as well, and how many men had been privileged to see the sort of thing he was now seeing?

He turned to find Cadogan watching him from the pilot’s seat. A smile played about the corners of the _cadlywydd_ ’s mouth as he said, “The first time you see something like that in person is a moment you never forget. I know I haven’t.” He glanced out the window himself for a long moment, taking in the vista as he adjusted their position. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d ever been in space before.”

Cromwell shook his head. “No, I hadn’t. This is a completely new experience for me.”

“Well, take a moment if you need one. We’ve got plenty of time.”

It didn’t take long for him to make the necessary mental adjustment. He likened it to his first jump in a way, suspended over the landscape with wind rushing by and nothing but a fabric canopy to support him. Gravity was both an old friend and a terrible foe, but he’d become accustomed to the drop, the fall, and the jerk of snapping harness as his ‘chute opened, catching air and giving him the tool he needed to force a stalemate. You didn’t win against gravity in that environment; rather, you made your peace with its terms, while forcing it to take less than it wanted from you. And in the end, wasn’t that what he’d still managed to do — if strictly by accident — the last time he and gravity had met as opponents?

Out here, it was different, of course. There was still the mental adjustment, the realization that the universe really did present you with three dimensions in which to work, and that there was a lot more of ‘down’ than the human mind was naturally accustomed to. For that matter, ‘down’ could be any direction, in the enormity of space. The hull and engines of a ship were simply a different toolset, for use in a realm where you fought not only gravity but other forces, bending some to your will while making peace with others.

 _I can do this,_ he remembered telling himself nearly a quarter-century ago, before that first jump. _I can do this, too,_ he told himself now.

Something must have shown in his face, because Cadogan stood, stretching, and stepped away from the pilot’s chair. “Ready?”

Cromwell nodded. “I am.”

By the end of the day, he had practiced a number of basic and increasingly more complicated maneuvers, including landing the craft on the moon’s rocky surface and taking off again. He was simultaneously both mentally tired from the effort of mastering this new skill set, and physically pent-up from having spent so many hours in the pilot’s chair. But more than either of those, he felt a strong sense of satisfaction. Far from being a disappointment in relation to his boyhood imaginings, flying the Tok’bel ship was exhilarating, if very strange when compared to his knowledge of terrestrial craft. Sabar and Cadogan had both taken a hand in this first day of his training, along with Gerlad who provided a purely human perspective untouched by the influence of a symbiote, and all three of his instructors seemed quite pleased with his progress.

{“Let’s head back,”} said Sabar, who’d taken over from Cadogan a short while earlier. {“You’ve done well on surface landings, so if you like, you can bring us in to the hangar. That is, if you feel comfortable navigating the canyon?”}

The hangar doors were set into the side of a jagged rent in the desolate plain beneath which the Tok’bel had situated their base. The canyon wasn’t particularly narrow, but it was far more confined, naturally, than open space or the empty skies above the moon’s surface. Nevertheless, Cromwell knew by now that neither Cadogan nor Sabar would suggest his attempting the landing if they weren’t fully confident in his ability to carry it out. At this point, he was loath to second-guess that confidence. “I’ll manage,” he said, bringing the vessel about and pointing it in the proper direction. The landscape rose up gently to meet them as he piloted the craft slowly in the direction of the base, responding to minute changes in the feedback sensations the control system generated when the vessel flew in close proximity to the ground. The canyon came into view, and he guided them into it, slipping over the edge and down, seeking the specific rock formation the orb presented to the visual center of his brain until the technologically-generated imagery matched what he saw before them.

{“Now trigger the hangar doors,”} said Sabar from behind him. {“Four taps on the center of the orb.”}

He did as instructed, the tel’tak feeding back acknowledgement via the orb as it sent out an encrypted burst that set two sections of what appeared to be the canyon’s rocky wall into motion. The lighted chamber within appeared, and the colonel brought the vessel in close, slipping within the chamber as the doors finished parting. External sound returned suddenly as they penetrated the forcefield barrier that kept the atmosphere inside, and Cromwell brought the vehicle down gently onto the crystalline floor, with barely a bump to signify contact. He kept his hands on the control orb for a moment longer, shutting down systems and feeling them settle into a quiescent state.

When he finally withdrew his hands, he noticed he was sweating. Releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he drew another, deeply, and exhaled slowly before looking up at his instructors.

Gerlad was grinning from ear to ear, and Sabar — or had Cadogan taken control while he’d been busy landing the ship? — was positively beaming. {“Most impressive,”} came the harmonic-laced voice. Sabar, then. {“My host concurs, by the way.”}

Cromwell allowed himself to sink against the back of the chair, tension going out of him like water from a tipped cup. “I need a drink,” he said.

Gerlad chuckled, while Sabar bowed his head and ceded control to his host. “I think we can arrange that,” said Cadogan, looking up with a chuckle of his own. He clapped the colonel on the shoulder. “Excellent job, and you’ve more than earned that drink.” He turned toward the doorway that led from the flight deck — it was pointless to waste power using transport rings to enter and exit a ship that was sitting in a secure pressurized environment, and Sabar’s scout vessel was equipped with a more conventional entrance located amidships, in addition to the rings. — as the colonel unfolded himself from the pilot’s chair. “Come on.”


	39. A Restless Night

_Insofar as one denies what is, one is possessed by what is not, the compulsions, the fantasies, the terrors that flock in to fill the void_. — Ursula K. Le Guin,  _The Lathe of Heaven_

 

Daniel followed the sound of voices as he navigated the corridor on Level 24 that led to the storage and work bays for the various remote-controlled equipment, such as UAVs and MALPS, used by SG teams. He could hear Teal'c conversing with Sam, the Jaffa's bass rumble in counterpoint to the captain's clear alto.

Rounding the corner into one of the bays, he found his two teammates. Sam leaned over one of the UAVs, apparently making adjustments of some sort as Teal'c watched. "We'll be able to see how much flooding and storm damage is in the area," the captain was saying, "and the UAV will help us to pinpoint the location of any settlements as well. We might even be able to spot Colonel Cromwell if he's out in the open."

"Perhaps the Colonel will notice the UAV. That will tell him that someone is searching for him," Teal'c replied thoughtfully.

Sam shook her head. "I don't think so, Teal'c. These are pretty quiet, and we usually fly them pretty high so the local population doesn't see them and become aware of the surveillance. I doubt the people on P2A-870 are familiar with aircraft, and I'd hate to spook them. But we should get good images regardless, and that'll be a big help in knowing what to expect."

"Hey, guys." Both heads turned at Daniel's greeting.

"Hey, Daniel." Sam turned back long enough to close a panel on the UAV and wipe the small plane's side with a cloth before turning her attention back to her colleague. "Have you seen the colonel?"

Daniel shook his head. "Not since Simmons queried the MALP again at 0700. Seriously, how much longer can these storms last?"

"They do indeed appear to have unusual longevity," noted Teal'c. "On Chulak, such an intense and long-lasting storm system might occur only once in a century."

"We have storms like that here on Earth sometimes. In fact, we call them 'century storms'." Sam folded the cloth and tucked it into the pocket of her BDUs. "It's entirely possible that's exactly what's happening on P2A-870. Maybe Colonel Cromwell's arrival and our searching for him just happened to coincide with something like a century storm."

Daniel consulted his watch. "Let's hope the weather has begun to clear by the time of the next MALP query in an hour. I'd really like to get back there and see if we can locate him. The locals might need some help in dealing with the aftermath of the storms, too."

 

***

 

Cromwell looked around the mess hall table at the men of the 121st Special Tactics. Captain Stuart fiddled with his ballpoint pen, clicking it over and over and tapping it against the pad of paper on the clipboard before him as though he couldn't figure out what to write. The colonel could sympathize; he knew the feeling from long years spent composing reports on missions that occasionally defied easy description.

Master Sergeant Douglas sat next to the captain, listening to Reiker and Warfield across the table as they tag-teamed some story they were telling. Every couple of sentences, one of them would correct the other, and then they'd argue good-naturedly for a moment about exactly how this or that part of the story had actually happened. It was SOP for them. Both tech sergeants, the pair had been best friends since basic, and where you saw one the other generally wasn't far behind. Watching them often reminded Cromwell of himself and Jack in years gone by, although he'd never have mentioned this aloud. Usually, the very thought caused him to seek some distraction from the memories and the pain they caused.

He looked down at the thick folder before him. Bordered in red, it had "Top Secret: Special Access" stamped across its cover. Inside, he knew, were mission reports filed by SG-1's commander, the same man who had been his best friend for more than a dozen years before a nightmare of a mission gone wrong in Iraq had left him a prisoner, and left Cromwell wounded. He'd had thought Jack dead for two months, until his name turned up on a POW list. After that, he'd tried to organize a mission to go behind enemy lines and get him — and any other prisoners — out of captivity, but to no avail. General West, in charge of Special Operations forces in the area, had informed him in no uncertain terms that he would not risk additional men on such a mission. Now, more than eight years later, West had revealed to Cromwell and his men the Stargate program, of which Jack O'Neill was 2IC. The 121st was to serve as a backup security team in the event something went wrong, buying time for the Pentagon to come up with a solution if they couldn't solve it themselves…

He opened the folder, intending to read again the much-redacted reports, irritated at the knowledge that information was missing from them and worried that it might prove to be crucial. It wouldn't be the first time in his experience that what the big brass considered important or useful was at odds with what men in the field really needed to know.

Take the Tok'ra, for instance. Okay, so according to the reports they were the same species as the Goa'uld, but for some reason considered the Goa'uld their enemy. Did that make them allies of Earth? It appeared so, at least to some extent. Like the Goa'uld, they took human hosts, and one of their number had recently acquired a high-level Air Force officer in that role. A general, no less.  _I guess that puts them on our side,_  Cromwell mused. But what had led them to oppose the Goa'uld in the first place? That part was still unclear.

He supposed it would have to be good enough. It wasn't as if he was terribly likely to ever meet any Tok'ra, after all. Probably a good thing, too. The whole idea creeped him out a little. No, not just a little; a lot. To have an alien creature living within you, with the ability to control your body and having access to your thoughts… He suppressed a shudder. Whatever that general had known, secret or otherwise, the Tok'ra probably knew now, too. The risk to security was mind-boggling. Cromwell had spent virtually his entire career dealing with Top Secret information, and his was the almost visceral reaction of someone steeped in the need for secrecy and security.  _I damn well_ hope _the Tok'ra really have our best interests at heart._

He reached for the cup of coffee that rested on the table beside the folder and swallowed a large mouthful. The hot liquid nearly scalded his throat, but its flavor was satisfying. Not that Air Force coffee was anything special, but he hadn't had coffee of any description in so long that…

What made him think that? Here he was at Peterson, where he and his team had been stationed since early March, and he drank base coffee by the quart, like most of his men. They ran SERE training exercises for Academy cadets and spent the rest of their time speculating on what they might encounter if they ever were called into Cheyenne Mountain to do the job that was their real assignment. Alternating between boredom and worry, he'd spent the past five months chafing, waiting for something to happen, certain it was only a matter of time before it did.

Christ, that coffee must have been even hotter than he'd thought. Either that, or the internal burning that had started in his gut was a world-class case of acid indigestion. Maybe the beginnings of an ulcer. Not that the thought really surprised him, but just the same, he knew he'd better not let any of the docs find out. No way was he going to be anyplace else but in charge of this team when — not if, but when, he was sure of it —  _when_  they got the call that something was wrong and the folks running the Stargate needed backup.

No way in hell.

His stomach churned now, and he pushed the coffee mug away with a scowl, beginning to fish in the pockets of his BDUs with his other hand.  _Dammit, where'd I put those antacids?_  He'd taken to carrying the roll around with him lately, just in case. He patted pocket after pocket, to no avail. The pain was increasing, and he thought for a moment of asking Douglas if he had any antacid tablets on him. The big master sergeant was the team's medic, so it wouldn't be out of the question. Yet Cromwell wasn't sure he wanted to let on to Douglas about the pain in his gut. The medic was nothing if not discreet, but still…

Damn, that really  _hurt_. The pain was spreading, at the same time becoming more intense. His gut and the lower part of his chest both felt like they were on fire, and there was a gurgling that was almost a sense of motion within him.  _Jesus, what the hell did I eat for lunch?_  He couldn't remember. Whatever it was, it felt like it was trying to return the favor. He leaned back, trying to ease the discomfort, but it was no use. The feeling of internal motion gave way to pressure, and a sensation he could only describe as  _slithering_. Terror-stricken now and suddenly unable to speak, he looked up and down the table at his men, all of whom seemed completely unaware of his situation.

His gut clenched, and a ripping pain convulsed him as something sought exit from his body. In utter horror, he felt his back arch and looked down to see a scaly head emerge, glistening red with his own blood, from just below his sternum like something from that movie — what had it been called? — he'd once dragged Jack out to see. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came —

Cromwell woke with an audible gasp, sweating and shaking. It still felt as though something were moving inside him, but it was only his heart, hammering in his chest. He took several deep breaths, willing its rate to slow. The third breath caught like a sob, and he felt Tesni turn in the darkness beside him. A moment later a soft hand stroked his shoulder, and a sleepy voice whispered, " _Annwylaf?_  Is something wrong?"

With a groan, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Still tangled in the covers, he unintentionally pulled them with him, and fought to free his legs, shoving the sheet and blanket back into the middle of the bed. Resting his elbows on his knees, he lowered his head into his hands, still waiting for his heart to slow to a normal pace. His breathing rasped loudly, even to his own ears.

"Nye?" Not a whisper this time, his wife's voice was gentle and filled with concern.

He drew a shuddering breath, held it for a moment, then let it out as slowly as he could. With the next, he answered, "Go back to sleep,  _cariad_. I'll be all right."

There was a rustling sound as she sat up, reaching out to lay a hand gently on his back. Her touch on his bare skin sent shockwaves through his system. He'd grown used to the nightmares over the years, but tended to wake from them with what felt like every nerve ending he owned dialed up to unbelievable levels of sensitivity. He took another deep breath, willing himself to stillness.

Tesni rose to her knees behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. "You had another dream, didn't you?"

He nodded. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"No need to apologize." The hands slipped briefly down his chest as she embraced him from behind, nuzzling his neck. Her hair fell softly across his shoulder, and the warmth of her body seeped through her nightdress as she pressed against him. "Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked.

He grasped one of her hands, twining his fingers in hers, and brushed it with his lips. "Talking about it isn't going to make any difference. I'll be all right."

"Come lie back down beside me, then."

He snorted, shaking his head. "I doubt I can sleep right now, Tesni. I'm usually awake for the rest of the night after one of these, and I don't want you losing sleep. I should probably just go in the other room and read, so I don't keep you awake with me."

"Stay. I don't mind being awake." Tesni held him for a moment, before gently freeing her captive hand, placing both on his shoulders again and flexing her fingers against his taut muscles. "You're tense." She began to massage his shoulders. Cromwell wasn't sure how much good it would do, but he had to admit that it felt pleasant. She had strong hands and an impressive amount of skill. For several minutes she simply kneaded his shoulders and back, before swinging her own legs over the edge of the bed and standing.

"Lie down and let me do this properly," she said, drawing aside the curtain from the single high window, paned with glass like those at Bennaeth Bod. Pale moonlight washed the room, pushing back the shadows — at least the physical ones.

He humored her, turning to stretch face-down on the bed and listening as she rummaged in a basket. The rustling stopped, followed by the sound of a cork being removed from a flask. A second later, the scent of lavender and rosemary reached his nostrils. She touched him again, her hands warm and now slick, continuing to massage away the tension caused by the nightmare and the stressful week. After several moments, he felt himself begin to drift off as he relaxed under her touch, despite having been certain he would get no more sleep this night.

He stirred muzzily as she slipped back into bed beside him, shifting to make room for her. Tesni pulled the covers over them both, pausing to kiss him gently on the scarred shoulder before placing another kiss on his brow, then stroked his hair with gentle fingers that still smelled of herbs.

He knew no more until daylight woke him.

Over their usual breakfast of tea, bread and cheese, Cromwell recalled the essentials of the nightmare, far less frightening now in the light of day than when he'd been gripped in its clutches or freshly-awakened from its terror. It didn't take a shrink to figure out why he'd had that particular dream, either. He'd been thinking about Tok'ra in it, just as he'd been doing in real life lately. And he'd dragged Jack to see  _Alien_  with him at the base cinema back in '79, after Lisa opted out, saying that horror wasn't really her thing, despite the film's billing as sci-fi. Jack hadn't wanted to see it, but he hadn't been about to go by himself. That would be boring. Jack had finally agreed to go with him. "But you owe me," he'd warned. Cromwell had wound up polishing Jack's boots for two weeks afterward. "What a turkey of a film," Jack remarked on the walk back.

Cromwell had pretended not to notice his friend's reaction when the film's titular alien burst from one character's chest, just as he'd ignored an earlier grunt of discomfort when another had attached itself to the same character's face. He'd been too busy reacting on both occasions himself to say much anyway. The idea of two grown men, especially trained Special Tactics operators, both flinching at the sight of a special-effects creature in a sci-fi movie was a bit over the top, but there it was.

The Goa'uld were no movie effect, though. They were real, as were the Tok'ra, and while Cromwell thought he'd finally managed to get past most of his discomfort with the latter and even begun to make friends with one or two, clearly there was still some portion of his psyche that hadn't quite made the transition.

He felt guilty at the thought. Cadogan had become his closest friend here, and his symbiote Sabar was certainly a decent person — even if the colonel didn't know him anywhere near as well as he knew Sabar's host. He was aware that Sabar had gone out of his way to accommodate him and avoid causing him unnecessary discomfort during those first eight months of his sojourn here, and he'd begun to interact directly with Sabar at Cadogan's personal request. No, the Tok'bel leader was definitely friendly, and so were Kaldin and the other Tok'bel of Cromwell's acquaintance.

He didn't like to think of himself as a man who had hang-ups, but the dream said otherwise. The colonel knew he would have to find a way to deal with that, and to get past them. From all appearances he was going to be stuck here, dealing with the Tok'bel on a regular basis, for what might be the rest of his life.

He looked up from his breakfast to find Tesni regarding him over the rim of her cup. "Is something on your mind,  _cariad_?" she asked.

Cromwell shook his head. "Not really. Well, nothing you can help with, at any rate."

"Are you certain? Considering last night…" She trailed off, watching his eyes. He'd had nightmares a handful of times since they'd begun sharing a bed, and Tesni assured him she understood that this was just part of his life, and the life of a lot of people who shared his career. Even Eogen had occasionally suffered nightmares, she'd told him, so she was not unaccustomed to dealing with the phenomenon.

"I've just been worrying about this big project that Sabar and Cadogan have cooked up, not to mention some smaller upcoming missions," he explained, trying to convince himself that he spoke the truth. "I guess my mind couldn't quite let go of it last night, that's all."

Tesni set down her cup and reached across the table to take his hand, twining her fingers with his. "I understand," she said simply.

The colonel wished  _he_  did.


	40. Mission To Emhain

 

 _Strategy without tactics is the slowest route to victory. Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat._ — Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

 

The first thing Cadogan felt upon exiting the _chappa’ai_ was the sting of rain whipped by strong winds. At least it wasn’t a blizzard, he mused. He’d visited Emhain’s Dardin district often enough in deep winter to have developed a marked distaste for the harshness of its seasonal storms.

{Not that this rain is going to be much better,} observed Sabar silently.

 _No, but I’m still glad we’re doing this in autumn rain instead of knee-deep snow,_ Cadogan replied. _As long as the roads aren’t too muddy, I won’t complain. A month from now, it might have been a different story._ Emhain’s year was slightly longer than Tir Awyr’s, resulting in correspondingly longer seasons. The difference was pleasant from mid-spring to late autumn, but at Dardin’s latitude the winters could seem interminable to anyone who hadn’t been born and raised here.

They heard the event horizon sizzle out of existence, and Gerlad quietly took up station beside them as Cadogan glanced about the small flagstoned plaza surrounding the _chappa’ai_. Seven Pridanic rebels were ranged about its perimeter, scanning the landscape with weapons at the ready. The eighth was just completing a circuit of the plaza, the hood of his cloak pushed back despite the rain to reveal close-cropped steel-gray hair.

“Look sharp,” barked Neirin to his men. “Just because we don’t _know_ there are Jaffa nearby, that doesn’t mean there couldn’t be.”

A chorus of voices responded smartly. “Yes, sir.”

The _filwriad_ nodded as he approached Cadogan and Gerlad, who had stopped next to the _ta’khet_ that occupied a pedestal in the plaza’s center. “We’ve secured the area,” he reported. “But I don’t mind telling you I’ll be a lot happier once we get away from the gate and on the road to Rath Tulach. _Ceannard_ Fearghas is expecting us this afternoon, isn’t he?”

“That’s what Sefys and Duthac arranged.” Cadogan pulled at the hood of his own cloak as the wind threatened to rip it from his head entirely. All of them were getting soaked, and from the look of the sky, the rain wouldn’t be letting up anytime soon. “No sense hanging about here. Let’s get on with it.”

In good weather, it was perhaps an hour’s march from the _chappa’ai_ to Rath Tulach, the fortified town that had been briefly and mysteriously occupied by a small force of Jaffa three months ago, under the command of an unknown Goa’uld leader possibly allied with Lord Moccas, one of Bel’s own sons who appeared to have designs on his father’s territory. In today’s waterlogged conditions it took significantly longer, but at last they arrived at the fort and were received into warmth and dryness.

The smells of wet wool and hot mulled ale filled the room where the visitors from Tir Awyr had been taken. Gerlad bustled off to confer with one of Fearghas’ officers, and Cadogan spread his own cloak next to his aide’s on a drying rack beside the broad hearth on which blazed a roaring fire. As he moved to rub his hands together before the flames, Neirin approached him with two mugs of ale. Cadogan took one and thanked him, wrapping chill fingers around the vessel’s warm surface.

The _filwriad_ grunted acknowledgment, applying himself to his own restorative mug. He then stared at the fire for a moment before turning to his commander, his face thoughtful. “Now that we have members of the rebellion in position here as the mayor and the mine captain, what do you think are the chances we can begin to make a real difference for the Emhaini Albannu?” The Jaffa strike force had executed both the previous mayor and the mine captain for reasons that still weren’t clear, although privately Cadogan suspected it had been merely a show of force, a suspicion with which Sabar concurred. Whatever the original intent, however, the executions had provided the _Am Rhyddid_ — or the _Air Sgàth Saorsa_ , as the rebel movement was known in the Alban tongue in use on Emhain — with the opportunity to fill both positions with individuals who were committed to the cause of freedom.

“Fairly good, I’d say,” replied Cadogan. “It’ll take time, of course. We’ll have to move very slowly and subtly, so as to avoid any of Bel’s officials taking notice, or Bel himself. And then there are Bel’s Jaffa, who aren’t exactly dim either. But we should be able to divert some of the mines’ output to our own cause, and we may find ways to place the blame on Moccas for certain things.”

“Everything takes time, Cadogan. I understand that.” Neirin took another sip from his mug, turning once more to watch the flames crackle and leap. When he spoke again after a moment, there was a note in his voice that the _cadlywydd_ felt hard-pressed to identify. “I’ve had to wait for things often enough in my life, and some of them were pretty important.” His face was in profile, but Cadogan thought he caught a shadow passing over his friend’s eyes. It was gone in an instant, leaving something else in its wake. “At least they were important to me,” Neirin continued, more softly this time. “This is important to a lot more people, though.”

“That’s why we’re here.” The _cadlywydd_ reached out to clasp Neirin’s shoulder. The other man didn’t pull away, the way he sometimes had early on in his time among them, before he’d grown accustomed to Pridanic ways which included touch as a matter of course in conversation. By now, it was hard to tell that Neirin was anything other than a Pridano born and bred. His accent, never strong to begin with, had long since disappeared and he appeared to have adjusted his body language to match. While still somewhat less gregarious and open than most Pridani, the difference was minor and left him only slightly removed from the average. Cadogan still occasionally wondered about his friend’s mysterious origins and past, while at the same time he marveled over the monumental effort it must have taken for Neirin to adapt so completely to his new role and the culture in which he found himself.

From the corner of his eye, Cadogan noticed motion at the doorway. Turning his attention in that direction, he saw Gerlad enter the room, accompanied by _ceannard_ Fearghas, leader of the Rath Tulach rebel cell. Fearghas was a stocky man of perhaps forty or so, with dark hair and pale gray eyes. He moved like a cat, quickly and fluidly; as though any obstacle his environment presented were little more than a minor annoyance, a futile challenge which he sidestepped without ever seeming to deviate from his course.

Obviously spying Cadogan speaking with Neirin before the fireplace, Gerlad and Fearghas approached them. “Greetings, _cathmhilidh_ ,” said Ferghas in Pridanic laced with a mild Alban brogue, using his own tongue’s translation of Cadogan’s title. “And to you, too…?” he continued, turning to Neirin.

Cadogan introduced them. “Fearghas, this is _filwriad_ Neirin ab Owein, whose Black Wolves accompanied me today.” _Y bleiddiau du_ was the name Neirin’s men had come to call themselves over the past year, in keeping with the local tradition of each team adopting a name they felt was descriptive of them, or inspired them in their duties. Their leader had seemed mildly amused by this at first, or perhaps by his men’s choice, but there was no disputing the fact that the Wolves were one of the most accomplished _Am Rhyddid_ units in the Dinas Coedwyg district, relative to the short time they’d been in existence.

Fearghas clasped arms with Neirin in the standard warrior’s greeting. “Well met, Neirin. Welcome to Rath Tulach.”

“Well met, Fearghas, and thank you.” Neirin inclined his head slightly in the customary half-nod that accompanied Pridanic greetings.

Fearghas turned back to Cadogan. “Our latest intelligence is that the increase in Jaffa guards at the mines has tapered off, and the mines are now guarded at nearly the same level as before the recent incident,” he said without further preamble. “Seoltach, our captain of the mines, thinks we can begin diversion of ore sometime this winter, when production has slowed and the guard are generally reduced even more.”

As Fearghas spoke, they moved toward the long table around which Neirin’s Wolves had arranged themselves, sipping at mulled ale and enjoying the warmth of the fortress after their chilly, damp trek from the _chappa’ai_. Relaxed but alert, they watched as their leader approached with Gerlad, Cadogan and the _ceannard_. Armagil, newly promoted to _rhaglaw_ and placed second in command under his _filwriad_ , sat nearest to the fire. From the look on the younger man’s face, he had been listening to the entire conversation. Armagil had extraordinarily sharp ears, and Cadogan didn’t doubt that he’d caught most of what his superiors had said thus far.

“Won’t that be noticed and lead to the miners being punished?” Neirin wore a look of concern as he asked the question, and Cadogan knew it was twin to his own expression.

“Domhnall and I were discussing that while we waited for Fearghas,” put in Gerlad. “According to him, Seoltach has already arranged for some adjustments to be made to both strength and scheduling of the mining crews in order to cover up the diversions. They’ll be slight, but enough to maintain production at a level that will allow the rebellion to absorb a share of the mines’ output while still providing Bel with enough naquadah to avoid the appearance of anything unusual.”

Fearghas nodded. “Gerlad’s right. Seoltach is Domhnall’s brother-in-law, and half his family works in the mines, as do most of Domhnall’s own kin. The majority of the work gangs there are led by one or another of their folk, and they’ve got this all figured out. I don’t expect we’ll run afoul of Bel or his underlings on account of output.”

“Fair enough,” acknowledged Cadogan. “Your people here are certainly more familiar with the local situation than we are.” He set his empty mug on the table and reached for a large covered pitcher that wore a quilted jacket. The spicy scent of hot ale rose as he poured. “I was under the impression you’d called me here to discuss more than your miners’ workload, though. What else did you have in mind to tell me?”

Fearghas chuckled as he picked up an empty mug for himself and plied the pitcher Cadogan had set down, topping off Neirin’s and Gerlad’s mugs and then filling his own. “You’re aware that Bel’s operation doesn’t just transport ore offworld in its raw state, of course. There’s a facility for preliminary processing at Doireglas, just downriver from Clachnabein, where the largest mine is situated.” He glanced at Cadogan as if seeking confirmation that the _cadlywydd_ recalled these facts.

Cadogan gave a nod. “Yes, I’ve been there.” He turned and commented to Neirin, “It isn’t more than a couple of miles upriver from here.”

The _ceannard_ grinned. “Well, since Rath Tulach and the Clachnabein mines have come under new management recently, we’ve decided it’s time the facility at Doireglas had a similar change. That’s where your man Neirin and his Wolves come in, if they’ll take the mission. It’s probably better that someone other than locals do the job, to keep familiar faces unconnected with the operation. That way, Bel’s officials will be far less likely to hold our people in suspicion when we go to place some of our own folk in charge afterward. At present, we have them convinced that everyone hereabouts is completely loyal to Bel, and we aim to keep them thinking that for as long as possible.”

Cadogan saw Neirin raise an eyebrow as the _ceannard_ mentioned him and the Wolves, though he said nothing, deferring instead to his commander. Cadogan knew that Neirin trusted him. It was a mutual trust; Neirin would no more fail him on a mission than Cadogan would willingly send him and his team on a fool’s errand. Both men had long since taken each other’s measure and knew what to expect. Cadogan shot Neirin a look that said, ‘The choice to take this mission or not is yours, but I want to know more before anyone decides anything.’ A nearly imperceptible nod of the _filwriad_ ’s head let him know the message had been received and understood.

This wasn’t a discussion to have in front of the Wolves, however. Laying a hand on Fearghas’ shoulder, the _cadlywydd_ steered him away from the table. Still silent, Neirin kept pace a mere step from his commander’s side, while Gerlad took up station on the other side of the Emhaini _ceannard_. Making for an empty table at the far corner of the room, Cadogan waited until they were out of range of even Armagil’s sharp hearing before addressing Fearghas. “Before I’ll commit personnel to this operation, I’ll need to know the exact details.”

Fearghas nodded as they reached the vacant table. “Naturally.” He set his cup down and slid into a chair as his visitors did likewise. Fixing Cadogan with an earnest gaze, he continued, “To be honest, there are a couple of ways we can do this, and I was hoping to get your opinion on the best method out of the ones we’ve come up with.”

Cadogan made no comment beyond a raised eyebrow as Gerlad took up the discussion. “ _Cadlywydd_ , Fearghas tells me his craftsmen have managed to reproduce Jaffa armor in secret. They’ve made only a few suits of it, but the thought was to perhaps use it to disguise some of our own warriors for this mission, or for others in the future. Some of his men are fluent in Goa’uld speech, and as long as they wear the armor of Jaffa, could likely pass among them undetected.”

{Now this is an interesting idea,} Sabar noted to his host. {That would only remain the case until they encountered Goa’uld, though, since adults can detect the presence of even immature symbiotes.}

 _True,_ allowed Cadogan. _Still, in a place like Clachnabein or Doireglas, often only Jaffa are present anyway, along with human slaves. Bel doesn’t seem to station his Goa’uld functionaries in places like that on a regular basis. That only happens on Galla, and as far as I can tell, only because the shipyards are there._

Glancing up, he noticed his companions watching him silently, clearly aware that he was in conversation with the Tok’bel symbiote. “Sabar find the idea intriguing, and so do I. How many suits of the armor do you have available?”

“At present, six,” Ferghas told him, grinning. “My people have been busy.”

“It certainly sounds that way,” Neirin commented. “The Jaffa who raided Rath Tulach this summer — did they wear the same armor as Bel’s own Jaffa?”

The _ceannard_ gave another nod. “Yes, they wore the Ram’s helm, just as we’ve always seen. And when they showed their faces, they bore the sign of the Ram on their foreheads. We all thought they were Bel’s forces until Sefys and Duthac later informed us that Sabar was certain they must belong to Lord Moccas.” Fearghas inclined his head in Cadogan’s direction. Sefys’ host Duthac, of course, was Emhaini himself and often chose to serve as the direct liaison between the Tok’bel and his homeworld’s rebels.

Cadogan spoke again. “Let me make sure I understand your plan. You want to send in six of your men, disguised as Jaffa, to start a fight with Bel’s Jaffa in the hope that Moccas will be blamed?”

Fearghas grinned again. “Yes, and then a mixed force made up mostly of your Black Wolves” — a nod in Neirin’s direction — “and a few of our own fighters will strategically battle the ‘invaders’ so as to appear loyal followers of Bel. In the course of action, they should manage along with the disguised men to kill off those among the Doireglas administrators who are true loyalists. With luck we can then replace those individuals with people who support our cause, as was done with both the mayor of Rath Tulach and the captain of the Clachnabein mines. The confusion of ‘foreign’ Jaffa, unfamiliar human fighters and general mayhem should be enough to throw off any suspicion of organized rebellion among the local population. The Wolves will of course disappear afterward, while our own people will claim no knowledge of who they were or where they came from, suggesting that Bel may in fact have more loyal followers than were previously known. Our people will pretend gratitude toward these ‘loyal minions’ afterward.”

Neirin spoke again, his voice gruff. “What did you plan to do with the false Jaffa? They’d have to at least appear to be killed, and I don’t like the idea of risking your own men that way.”

Fearghas spread his hands. “I’ll admit, that’s the part I’m still working on. We haven’t settled on a firm timeframe to stage all of this anyway. Today was meant merely as a first meeting to assess our options and present them to the _cathmhilidh_ and whomever he saw fit to include when I passed the message that a highly-skilled team from offworld would be needed.”

“Zats.”

All eyes turned to Gerlad, who had spoken the single word. “Zat’nik’tels,” he said, gesturing. “One shot stuns, but in the confusion it would seem as though they’d been killed. We could arm our fighters with zat’nik’tels for the battle.”

“They’ll have to look as though they don’t really know how to use them, though,” cautioned Cadogan. “And be able to explain where they got them.”

Gerlad nodded, looking thoughtful. “I know. But I’m sure we can come up with some explanation. If our men showed up initially with just human weapons and kept the zats hidden until later in the fight, they could probably claim to have found them on Jaffa corpses in the confusion.”

“And in the meantime, the ones in disguise are being shot at with staff weapons and possibly shot twice with zats by Bel’s own Jaffa,” said Neirin darkly.

Cadogan attempted to soothe the _filwriad._ “That’s a possibility in any action, Neirin,” he reminded his friend. “The armor will provide some protection in any case, and —”

The _cadlywydd_ ’s words were interrupted by a loud crash from the far end of the room. Turning to look, he saw the door through which they’d all entered bounce back from the wall against which it appeared to have been flung by the figure who now sprinted across the chamber to stop, panting, before Fearghas. Out of the corner of his eye, Cadogan saw the Wolves rise almost as one from the table about which they had been lounging just a moment ago. His gaze flicked toward Neirin again and he saw the _filwriad_ make a subtle staying gesture in his men’s direction. An instant later, Armagil’s voice could be heard ordering the Wolves to hold.

The man who had entered drew a sobbing breath, followed by another. Finally regaining control over his lungs, he delivered his report. “Your pardon, _ceannard_ Fearghas, but we’ve just had word that there are Jaffa fighting Jaffa at the processing facility.”

{Wait, what? At Doireglas?} Sabar asked silently.

Cadogan opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Fearghas, who had a different question. “Do they all wear the sign of the Ram, or are there more than one group?”

The young man before them shook his head. “All wear the Ram’s horns, but it appears to be a pitched battle, and the leader of the Jaffa garrisoned at Doireglas was heard to swear an oath against Moccas.”

The _ceannard_ rose to his feet as the messenger finished. “It sounds as if Lord Moccas has decided to do a portion of our work for us,” he said, glancing about at Neirin, Cadogan and Gerlad. “The question now is how we can use this to our advantage.”

 


	41. A Raid On Doireglas

_Men exist for the sake of one another._ — Marcus Aurelius

Cromwell was grateful the rains had ceased before they set out, although the muddy road had still posed some difficulty. Still, traveling on horseback had helped, both in the speed of their passage and in preventing further fatigue from a muddy slog on foot through unfamiliar territory.

After the runner from Doireglas had delivered his message, _ceannard_ Fearghas had gathered a team of his own rebels and ordered horses for himself and them, as well as for the party from offworld. Apparently deciding against implementing the false Jaffa ruse for the present, he’d explained his new plan to Cadogan, Cromwell and Gerlad as both rebel teams prepared to mount in the stableyard of the fort at Rath Tulach.

“ _Cathmhilidh_ , we’ll get as close as we can to the facility and the fighting, then send scouts to see exactly what’s happening. If the two groups of Jaffa are still engaged with one another, I intend to lead one squad of my men into action, ostensibly on the side of Bel’s Jaffa. Naturally, we’ll seek to take out as many loyalists as we can with our clumsy attempt to help. While we’re doing that, I’d like your men to split into three smaller teams and go after specific key individuals, assuming we don’t see them right away, engaged in the main action.” The Emhaini officer paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Our biggest problem will be communications, since we don’t dare have any of your men be heard speaking Pridanic. I know, _cathmhilidh_ , that you and Gerlad here speak the tongue of my men, but are there any others with you who also speak it?”

Cromwell spoke up then. “Armagil does. He’s my second in command.” The colonel knew that his _rhaglaw_ ’s mother came from among the Albannu on Tir Awyr. He’d learned this upon finding Armagil holding an animated conversation in Alban with the Emhaini messenger Crinan not long after Crinan’s arrival in Llanavon with word of the attack on Rath Tulach some three months ago. When asked, Armagil had explained that he’d grown up speaking his mother’s tongue alongside his father’s Pridanic, in a situation not terribly dissimilar to the way in which Cromwell had learned Welsh from his paternal grandmother as a boy. Apparently, the dialect of Alban in use on Emhain differed little from that used by the Albannu on Tir Awyr.

Fearghas nodded. “Very good; that will help matters immensely. My aim is to send one of my own men with each group of your Wolves, to point out your targets. But none of mine speak Pridanic save one, so having three among your party who speak Alban solves the problem of how to convey that information. Naturally, the rest of you will have to rely on sign rather than speech, lest you be overheard and recognized as being from offworld.”

Cromwell nodded. “Understood, Fearghas.”

With that, they’d mounted up and taken the sodden road to Doireglas, some four klicks distant, traveling as swiftly as the beasts and the conditions would allow. Arriving within sight of the processing facility, the _ceannard_ had led them off into a farmyard. “This farmcroft belongs to the father of one of my officers. We can leave our mounts in the barn and continue on foot, though I want to send scouts ahead.”

Dismounting, the party led their horses into the large, weathered barn and made them comfortable while they waited for the return of the pair of men Fearghas had sent to spy out the current situation at the naquadah refinery just up the road. Once the horses were seen to, Cromwell called his Wolves together at one end of the barn. He looked up and down the line of men ranged before him in the dim light shed by the building’s single high window. “Armagil, I’d like you to take Coll, Brioc and Llew with you. Fearghas will assign you one of his men as a guide.” The _rhaglaw_ nodded, as did the three other Wolves Cromwell had named.

Turning to the remainder of his team, he continued. “Pyr and Issui, you’re to go with Gerlad, and the guide that Fearghas assigns to you.”

Both men nodded. “Yes, sir,” said Pyr, a wiry blond man with green eyes.

Cromwell turned to Cadogan. “That leaves Tathan and myself to accompany you and our own guide,” he said. “Unless you’d prefer ours to be the larger team? For your own safety, of course, since you — ”

The _cadlywydd_ cut him off with a shake of his head. “No, Neirin. I’m as safe with you and Tathan as I’d be with twice as many others, and in any case you know I won’t send anyone to run a risk I won’t take myself. Besides, Sabar gives me an advantage, and makes for another mind on the squad as well.”

Cromwell couldn’t argue with that, and didn’t bother to try. He’d been impressed from the first by Cadogan’s preference for accompanying his personnel in the field, rather than just directing their operations remotely the way some commanders in his experience did.

Changing the subject, he offered a suggestion instead. “Cadogan, given the present difficulty of communication between my team and the locals, wouldn’t it make sense to train those who are active in the _Am Rhyddid_ and its member groups in some standard language that could be used in joint operations? It’s just a thought, but it would certainly make things easier in situations like these.”

Cadogan gave him an appraising look. “You know, that thought had occurred to me as well, now that we’re ramping up our activities. The question is, which language to use? There are at least half a dozen major tongues in use across the Five Worlds. Sabar has learned them all, which means I can speak them too, but choosing just one common language for the entire movement is tricky.”

“Well, you’re Pridanic, and so is Gerlad. Seems to me that makes Pridanic the language of the current high command, by default. Why not use it? Either that, or have us all learn Tok’ra or something.” Even as he said it, Cromwell cringed inwardly. He didn’t exactly relish the thought of having to learn the language of the snakelike symbiotes. _Isn’t learning six foreign languages in a lifetime enough, even if I’d only call myself fluent in two or three of them?_ Nevertheless, he’d made the suggestion, and it wasn’t any less realistic than expecting the Emhaini or Gallan rebels to learn Pridanic. Besides, it might make it that much easier for all of them to interface with the movement’s Tok’bel allies.

The _cadlywydd_ chuckled. “I don’t think using Tok’ra is the answer. But Pridanic as a universal language of command for our movement does make a certain amount of sense, even if we can’t use it aloud in the field under all circumstances. It isn’t any more difficult to learn than any of the others, I suppose, and most of our rebels are pretty bright. You certainly learned it quickly enough.”

Cromwell shook his head. “Don’t look to me as an example,” he warned. “I had the advantage of already speaking a very similar language, remember. But I’ve had to learn others over the course of my life and career — please don’t ask — and it isn’t all that hard for most people to learn at least enough to get by.”

“Well, the most important part is that you at least can approach this from the standpoint of someone who had to learn Pridanic rather than having it as your native tongue. Since you’re obviously familiar with language learning in general, perhaps I should have you take a role in developing the curriculum we can use for teaching at least a basic level of it to our personnel from other worlds? You’ve already shown that you’re a good teacher when it comes to other things, so this ought not to be much of a leap.”

Cromwell found that he was simultaneously taken aback and yet warmed by Cadogan’s suggestion. He _had_ started out with plans to become a schoolteacher or a professor not quite thirty years ago, when he’d first entered college and then signed on with AFROTC to pay for the education he’d hoped would make that dream a reality. Over the course of what had instead become a long-term military career, the Air Force had utilized him as an instructor on any number of occasions, although never in the field of languages. In his brief time among the _Am Rhyddid_ thus far he’d served as an instructor as well, teaching hand-to-hand tactics and generalized martial arts and even offering pointers on everything from combat strategy to personnel management to other command personnel at the _cadlywydd_ ’s request. Helping to put together a training program for language education was more than a bit outside the realm of what he’d done previously, but he’d been the one to bring it up just now, so he supposed he was already on the hook. He hadn’t let his friend and CO down yet, and now was no time to start.

Cadogan was watching his face closely, clearly expecting some answer. “I suppose I could be of help,” the colonel offered cautiously. “Though I doubt you’ll want me to handle the entire program. But if you think I’d be useful as a resource, I’ve no problem with that.”

The _cadlywydd_ chuckled again, clasping his shoulder. “We’ll talk about it when this mission is over, Neirin. But you’ve definitely given me some food for thought, and Sabar as well.”

The Emhaini scouts returned a few minutes later, and after conferring briefly with them, Fearghas approached with both scouts in tow. They were accompanied by a third man whom Cromwell recognized as Crinan. Apparently the young messenger was under the _ceannard_ ’s direct command.

“All right,” said Fearghas, without preamble. “Machan and Dougal here tell me there appear to be about thirty Jaffa fighting in yon facility, roughly fifteen to a side as far as either of them can tell. The loyalist staff number not quite twenty, and there are already four confirmed dead among them. No one’s seen Ailpein, the head of the human staff.” He spat on the dirt floor. “Coward that he is, I’m not surprised. I’d like to send Crinan” — he clapped the young man on the shoulder — “with your squad, _cathmhilidh_ , and Machan and Dougal can each accompany one of the others. Unless you’ve some objection, I’ll suggest that you and your squad concentrate on locating Ailpein and dispatching him. Wouldn’t surprise me if the no-good toady went to ground at the first sign of danger, and Crinan’s a dab hand at ferreting out them what prefers not tae be found.” The _ceannard_ ’s Alban brogue became more pronounced with agitation, some detached portion of Cromwell’s mind noted with mild amusement.

Cadogan nodded. “That sounds like a plan. I think we’ll have Machan accompany Armagil’s squad.” He gestured in the _rhaglaw_ ’s direction, and Machan moved to join him and his three Wolves. “Dougal can go with with Gerlad and his team.” The _cadlywydd_ spoke a few words of Alban to each of the Emhaini men, and although Cromwell couldn’t follow the gist of what he said, Cadogan’s tone was reassuring.

Fearghas spoke again. “I’ve given Machan and Dougal each an objective of locating certain key personnel among the loyalists and finding a way to rid ourselves of them without its being obviously deliberate. I’ll take my remaining five men and join in the overall defense of the facility, so it will look as if we’re just locals coming to the aid of our lord’s troops. Naturally, we’ll have our own objective of taking out any loyalists we reasonably can under the guise of friendly fire.” He grinned again. “When things quiet down, we’ll all meet up back here. If something prevents your accessing the barn or the croft, do your best to get back to Rath Tulach and the fort. There are any number of trails that will take you there without using the main road, and my men know them all.” A nod. “Good hunting.”

“Good hunting to you,” replied Gerlad, echoed by Cadogan and Cromwell.

Fearghas and his team of five set out first, and Cadogan ordered the three groups of Wolves and their guides to approach the ore-processing facility at five-minute intervals, with each squad coming from a different direction. This required their own team to circle around slightly to the northeast in order to approach via a wooded gully that ran up to the rear of the main building from the river. Crinan took point as they climbed the embankment, being the only member who knew the terrain well. Soon they were creeping along the outer wall of the processing facility, staying close against its rough stone surface. Tathan followed directly on Crinan’s heels, with Cadogan behind him. Cromwell took their six, glancing behind every few seconds to be sure they weren’t spotted and followed. They’d passed no Jaffa guards, nor were there any human guards in sight, but it never hurt to be careful. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they might well be walking into a situation for which no amount of planning could prepare them.

Ahead, Crinan halted at a break in the wall and turned, motioning his companions to gather around him. “This was an auxiliary entrance used by the workers, until some of the brickwork in the entry corridor fell in several years ago. It was never repaired, but the inner end of the passageway was never completely sealed, either. We can enter here and pick our way through, though we’ll have to be on watch for falling bricks. Still, I’m fairly sure that whatever was going to fall has likely done so by now, so we ought to be safe enough.”

Cadogan nodded. “Where does the inner passageway lead?”

“It should bring us out just a little way from an equipment room, inside the main processing plant. I actually worked this facility for a time last year; the Jaffa draw people from the village in rotation to work for the space of a month as laborers under loyalist overseers.” Crinan pulled a face. “Not that we’re given any choice, of course. But it’ll help us now, because everyone on my _ceannard_ ’s team has spent time here and understands the layout of the buildings and the compound.”

“Where are we apt to find this Ailpein character?” asked Cromwell.

“I expect he may be hiding somewhere in the plant. Ailpein’s primary use to Bel and his Goa’uld hierarchy is as an administrator. He manages staff well enough to retain his position, but courage was never his strong point. I doubt he’d put his own life or safety at risk to actually defend this place against an invading force of foreign Jaffa.” The Emhaini guide squatted down, drawing a knife from his belt. A patch of packed if slightly muddy earth served as a blackboard while he used the tip of the blade to sketch the basic layout of the compound. “We’ll enter here, between the equipment storage and the main processing floor. There are three levels here. The ground level is the processing floor, of course. There are catwalks above, serving the overhead portions of the machinery for separating and refining the naquadah ore, and the basement level is the loading docks for the barges that carry the processed ore downriver toward the _chappa’ai_.” Cromwell was already aware that Emhain’s refined ore was carried overland the last klick to be taken offworld. “The docks are only used when there’s sufficient supply for tribute, and that’s only twice a year.”

“Sounds to me like it might make the perfect hiding place for Ailpein, then,” the colonel commented.

“It wouldn’t surprise me, either,” agreed Cadogan. “We’ll begin with a sweep of the main floor, then check the docks.” He pulled a stubby metallic cylinder from his belt pouch; Cromwell recognized it as a flashlight of Tok’ra design. Activating it, the _cadlywydd_ passed it to Crinan. “I’m guessing our way in will be dark, so use this.”

The narrow passageway that led into the facility was littered with fallen brickwork and choked with cobwebs. Cromwell heard a skittering somewhere in the shadows as the squad cautiously made their way through, and once he could have sworn he felt something scramble over his left boot. _Ugh, figures there’d be rats in here._

They emerged behind a screen wall that separated the inner corridor from what indeed appeared to be an equipment bay. The inside of the facility was lit by blank white panels set at regular intervals into the stone ceiling. The light they gave was less harsh than the ubiquitous fluorescent lighting Cromwell had been accustomed to in buildings on Earth, but otherwise they reminded him sharply of home.

Crinan handed the ‘flashlight’ back to Cadogan, who deactivated it and stowed it once more in his pouch. Gesturing for the others to follow, the young Emhaini man moved to check the equipment storage bay. There was no one present, and they soon moved to the processing floor itself. All was strangely quiet here, the rather primitive machinery stilled in what looked like mid-task. Cromwell could hear intermittent sounds of staff and zat fire in the distance, indicating that fighting still took place beyond the immediate area, but not a soul occupied the factory floor. They spent ten minutes on a full sweep of the area, ducking in and out between the various work stations, conveyors and separating machines. Their reconnaissance included a thorough inspection of the catwalks overhead, which proved to be similarly deserted.

The colonel found it almost eerie, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Something wasn’t quite right. Had every worker been ordered to help in the facility’s defense?

Satisfied that the processing area was empty save for themselves, Cadogan gestured to Crinan. “That leaves only the docks to be checked. Lead us that way.”

Their guide ushered them through a doorway that gave onto a dimly-lit stairwell. As they descended, he said, “There is also a platform for raising and lowering cargo when barges are loaded or unloaded. We saw the pulleys for it up in the catwalk, but with no one to work them, the platform itself should be on the dock level. If we have to check the shaft itself, we’ll need your wee light again, _cathmhilidh_. Though with luck, we won’t have to.”

They found the docks seemingly as deserted as the processing floor had been. The underbelly of the facility housed a narrow cave-like space hewn out of the living rock that formed one side of the gully through which ran the river Doire on its way toward the gentler  hill country near the stargate. Cromwell assumed this place took its name from the river itself. He knew only a few words of Alban, gleaned from conversations with Armagil, but was aware that ‘glas’ was the word for ‘river’. He had an easier time with ‘doire’, which sounded very similar to its Pridanic cousin _derw_ , meaning ‘oak’.

Within this subterranean space, a level stone work area roughly fifteen feet wide ran along the river itself, bounded on its other side by the cavern wall. More light panels relieved the dimness every ten feet or so, set into the walls this time as well as the ceiling. Cromwell got the impression they were running on a lower power setting than they would when the dock was in use. As it was, however, much of the area was in shadow. He could just make out a long, low shape in the water at the far end of the cavern. Gesturing for Tathan to accompany him, the colonel moved closer to investigate.

A small barge was tied up to a pair of the stone mooring posts set at intervals along the bank. A stout rope passed through an iron ring at the fore, and through a similar ring set into a post. This arrangement was repeated at the aft of the barge, and the craft bumped gently against the pads attached to the stonework just at the waterline, bobbing slightly with the river’s flow. Its cargo area was barren and there was no boatman aboard; the poles used to guide it rested on the deck.

Tathan glanced nervously at his commander. “You think this is how Lord Moccas’ Jaffa came here?” he asked, _sotto voce_.

Cromwell nodded, replying in the same tone, “It’s possible. Chances are they thought to steal processed naquadah ore and load it up to carry back to the _chappa’ai_ on the barge to bring back to Moccas.” He couldn’t bring himself to apply the term ‘lord’ to any Goa’uld, despite the fact that many of the Celts did so casually. It hadn’t escaped the colonel that this was something he shared with the Tok’bel of his acquaintance, either.

Cadogan and Crinan joined them, zats at the ready and still keeping a sharp eye out for movement in the shadowy recesses of the cavern. “There shouldn’t be a barge here now,” observed Crinan in a hushed voice, confirming Cromwell’s thoughts of a moment ago.

“I guess we know how our Jaffa visitors arrived, then,” said Cadogan quietly. “Of course, that means they’ll most likely be coming back this way, probably with stolen naquadah.”

“Ambush?” Tathan glanced at his companions.

“Not with only the four of us,” replied Cadogan, shaking his head. “The messenger said there were at least fifteen foreign Jaffa present. Assuming even two-thirds showed up for the return trip, we’d be outnumbered more than two to one. Sabar scarcely counts in this instance, as between us we only have the one pair of hands.”

“Tactically speaking, I wouldn’t want to try it,” agreed Cromwell. “Even less with you and Sabar present, if you’ll permit me to say so. Too risky, given your importance to the movement.”

Cadogan frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he was about to say was pre-empted by a _thud!_ from the shadows at the rear of the cavern. Cromwell whirled as reflex born of long training brought his zat to bear, aimed in the direction of the sound. Tathan mirrored his response, as did Crinan and Cadogan.

Silence reigned. Cromwell glanced at Tathan, gesturing with a nod for the lanky man to remain with Cadogan in position as a rear guard. With another head-gesture, the colonel indicated that Crinan should accompany him to investigate the source of the sound. Cadogan quietly handed his Tok’ra ‘flashlight’ to Cromwell.

Together, the pair moved cautiously toward the shadowy recesses at the rear of the dock. Cromwell could feel a slight draft from just ahead of them and realized they were nearing the shaft that housed the cargo lift. Glancing at Crinan, he pantomimed searching upward in the shaft with the light he carried, gesturing instructions for Crinan to keep his zat at the ready in case they should find an enemy. At Crinan’s nod, the two separated by several feet to approach the floor of the shaft from slightly different angles.

The lift platform rested on the stone floor of the cavern, empty. The colonel watched for Crinan to get into position, then aimed Cadogan’s light up into the shaft touched the switch on the side. The beam stabbed upward and Cromwell squinted as his eyes reacted to the sudden brilliance. There was motion, and a bolt of energy shot out from the direction of a shape clinging to the shaft’s wall. It went wild, striking the edge of the platform farthest from both men.

Crinan reacted first, returning fire with his own zat. A stunned form landed with a thump in the middle of the platform, zat sliding from its nerveless fingers. Cromwell played the light over its face. “Ailpein?” he asked.

Crinan nodded. “That’s him.”

The colonel played the light over the entire interior of the shaft, but no other surprises awaited them. An access ladder attached to the shaft’s interior was deserted. “Looks like he was alone,” he commented.

Crinan nodded again, taking careful aim at the unconscious figure and firing a second bolt. Despite knowing they had no other choice, Cromwell couldn’t quite help a sharp intake of breath as the Emhaini rebel efficiently dispatched their quarry. “What about the corpse?” he asked as the glow of energy faded.

“Fearghas said to make it look as though anyone we eliminated was actually the victim of Lord Moccas’ Jaffa, but I’m not sure how we can do that here.” Crinan studied the figure of the late and unlikely to be lamented Ailpein as they were joined by Cadogan and Tathan.

The _cadlywydd_ appeared to have overheard this latest exchange. “As long as some of Moccas’ Jaffa survive to return to the dock, it should work just fine. What we need to do is position the body near enough to the barge that it appears he was trying to prevent their escape, but obscured in such a way as to not be easily spotted by the returning Jaffa until they’re nearly ready to board.” He paused, wearing the look that meant he was listening to his symbiote. “Sabar says it would be nice to have a force of our own present to actually prevent that escape, and I agree. We’d both prefer none of them get back to Moccas.”

Cromwell nodded. “So Tathan’s idea of an ambush isn’t a bad one, but we can’t do it without more personnel. We’ll need to collect at least one of the other teams, then double back here ahead of the Jaffa.”

“Exactly.”

They laid Ailpein not far from the barge, partly hidden behind a large wooden crate of the type used to hold processed ore. In the dim light of the dock, the body was barely visible, zat grasped in one hand. When Cadogan and Sabar were satisfied that the administrator would appear to have been killed in an attempt to prevent someone from boarding the barge, the team retreated to the stairwell and ascended to the main processing floor. Judging from the sound, the fighting had drawn closer.

Clearly, the _cadlywydd_ heard it, too. Turning to Crinan, he asked, “Of our two other teams, which would you think is likely to be closest to our present position, given the tasks with which Fearghas charged them?”

The young man thought for a second. “Armagil’s team, most likely, with Machan. If they’re not already involved in yon skirmish” — he jerked his head to indicate the direction from which the sounds of battle emanated — “I would expect to find them between here and there.”

Cadogan clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Their guide led the party out of the building and into a courtyard bounded on three sides by the building they’d just exited and two neighboring structures, and by the compound’s exterior wall on the fourth. A gap between the wall and one of the neighboring buildings accommodated what appeared to be a roadway for the transport of ore and possibly other materials within the facilty; grooves worn into its cobbled surface gave evidence of the passage of carts. Indeed, two handcarts stood off to one side against the wall of the building just across from the one they’d left. One was half-full of raw naquadah ore, while its companion was empty. The sounds of battle echoed from the stone walls in the narrow space.

Crinan gestured toward the gap, speaking to Cromwell. “It sounds like they’re fighting in the forecourt, near the guardhouse. I know Fearghas intended Machan’s squad to find and dispatch Ogan, the dayshift overseer, but since we found no one in the main plant he could have been anywhere. This next building is the laborers’ dormitory; I expect Machan and your men will have checked there first.”

“We’ll look inside anyway, just to be sure,” instructed the colonel. “I’d hate to skip it and miss something important.”

The dormitory was a long two-story building whose Spartan interior reminded Cromwell of the barracks his AFROTC unit had occupied during their four weeks of field training when he was in college. It proved to be deserted, though signs of recent fighting were evident in several overturned chairs, a table on its side with one edge splintered and singed, and a number of bunks that appeared to have suffered similar treatment. The smell of ozone was strongest at the ground floor’s far end, and the party cautiously made their way into what looked like a dayroom. There they found more furniture in disarray, along with two human corpses dressed in nondescript clothing and a single dead Jaffa.

“I recognize these two,” said Crinan, peering at the dead men. “They headed work gangs when I was a laborer here. They’re both loyal to Bel, or at least they were.”

Cadogan moved forward for a closer examination of the Jaffa. The ram-horned helmet was open, and the face inside twisted in a grimace, even in death. Cromwell joined the _cadlywydd_ as the latter knelt, reaching out to touch the corpse’s forehead.

“Cadogan!” the colonel hissed. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

His commander looked up. “Oh, he’s quite dead, Neirin; don’t worry. Sabar can even sense that this one’s symbiote is dead as well. I just want to see what we’re dealing with.” He pressed a thumb to the tattoo on the Jaffa’s forehead. Rendered in what appeared to be black ink just below the surface of the skin, it displayed the same stylized ram’s horns as on any of Bel’s other Jaffa.

The _cadlywydd_ rubbed the ball of his thumb firmly across the symbol several times. As Cromwell watched, the top layer of ‘skin’ began to peel and disintegrate, allowing the pigment beneath to smear and smudge. Cadogan rubbed harder, his efforts revealing a second layer which must be the Jaffa’s own skin. The _cadlywydd_ paused to draw a handkerchief from his belt pouch and use it to wipe his thumb, then scrubbed the rest of the false tattoo away with it, exposing a different symbol. Like the ram’s horns worn by Bel’s Jaffa, this one was also composed of a pair of curved lines, but unlike the spiraling curls of Bel’s symbol, these curved slightly down, then sharply upward once, their ends not quite touching at both top and bottom. A small dot sat just above the lower end of each of the curved lines, looking for all the world like a pair of eyes.

“The sign of the Boar,” said Cadogan quietly. “According to historical sources, Moccas adopted this symbol as his own upon assuming full and independent control of Arverenem after he and his siblings staged their coup against Bel. I’m rather surprised that the Jaffa currently under his control wear it, though. I would expect them to be at least nominally still bound to and wearing the symbol of his patron, whoever that is.”

“The Tok’bel still don’t know?” asked Cromwell as he leaned over Cadogan’s shoulder for a closer look at the Jaffa’s tattoo. It _did_ resemble a boar’s eyes and tusks, he realized.

“No. A pair of operatives have been sent to infiltrate Moccas’ organization, since we do know which world he uses as a home base, courtesy of Bel’s own spies. The problem is that Khaletia — that’s the planet’s name — has been at least tenuously claimed by several different minor Goa’uld over the past thousand years, occasionally at the same time. Moccas could be aligned with any of them.” Cadogan folded his handkerchief, tucking it back into his pouch. “I doubt he’s been going it alone, however.”

Cromwell straightened, offering Cadogan his hand. “Hasn’t there been any word from the Tok’bel operatives?”

The _cadlywydd_ grasped the proffered hand and got to his feet, shaking his head. “Not yet. That by itself isn’t a surprise, as they’ve only been gone for less than three months, and it can take some time to get securely into place such that they’d be able to risk a visit back to deliver information, or even be able to arrange to pass it along somehow.” He gazed down at the dead Jaffa again. “If Moccas is branding Jaffa with his own symbol, he must be supremely confident — or supremely arrogant. Not that either one is surprising in a Goa’uld.”

Tathan, stationed near the dayroom’s open window, hissed at his superiors. “Sirs, the fighting’s shifted.” Sure enough, the distinctive sound of energy weapons discharging was closer now, and shouting could be heard. Cromwell caught what could only be an Emhaini battle cry, its words unintelligible but the meaning unmistakable.

Cadogan cocked his head, appearing to hear something else. “Someone’s coming,” he said.

Cromwell had grown accustomed to the _cadlywydd_ ’s uncannily sharp senses over the past year, although he still often wondered whether this were a natural talent in his adoptive kinsman or some effect of hosting a symbiote. It scarcely mattered, of course. The fact that he had them had proven invaluable time and again.

A second later, Cadogan’s pronouncement was confirmed as the sound of running footsteps reached the colonel’s ears. From the sound, the colonel deduced that several individuals were approaching the near side of the building. A door to the outside occupied one wall of the dayroom; it stood ajar. With a gesture, Cromwell ordered Crinan and Tathan to take up defensive positions using the room’s battle-scared furniture as cover. He and Cadogan moved to opposite sides of the doorway and pressed themselves flat against the wall with weapons at the ready, covering the entrance.

The slap of leather soles against flagstones drew closer, and the colonel caught a sob of indrawn breath in the split second before five figures burst through the doorway. “Hold!” cried the lead man, and Cromwell frowned at the man’s appearance. It was Armagil, with blood matted in his dark hair, and the skin on one side of his face scraped raw. Behind him Llew, Coll, Brioc and Machan skidded to a stop, eyes wide as they spied Cadogan and Cromwell with zat’nik’tels trained on them.

Clearly registering his _filwriad_ ’s concerned expression, Armagil gestured to his head. “The blood isn’t mine,” he said, turning to take aim at the doorway with his own weapon as his men did likewise. “Or, at least most of it isn’t. But we have loyalists on our heels. We’d planned to set an ambush for them here.”

“Ogan?” asked Crinan, looking sharply at Machan.

“Yes,” Machan answered. “With five others and three Jaffa.”

Cadogan had said nothing during this exchange, his head still cocked as though listening for sounds from outside. Now he gestured for quiet, adjusting his grip on the zat he still held aimed at the doorway. A moment later, Cromwell once again heard the sound of running, this time accompanied by shouts in both Alban and Goa’uld. It appeared that whoever was approaching this time was accompanied by Jaffa. A glance told him that the rest of his team were prepared to meet their enemy. _Nine against nine,_ he thought. _That’s better odds than Armagil would’ve had if we hadn’t been here. I’m glad we caught up with them. Gonna be awfully close-quarters fighting, though._

The pounding of booted feet grew louder, and a second later, a swarm of bodies burst through the doorway. A pair of well-timed shots from Armagil’s zat dispatched the Jaffa who’d been in the lead, just as the last of the loyalists entered. The room erupted in a deadly exchange of energy bolts from ma’tok staff weapons and zats as both sides opened fire. Cromwell and Cadogan dared not fire into the melee from their positions flanking the doorway, as to do so would jeopardize their comrades should any of the bolts miss their targets.

Cadogan began to move around one side of the general fighting, obviously hoping to reach a position where he would have a clear shot. Cromwell mirrored his motion, bringing the two of them into position where they could fire on their opponents with less risk of catching one of their own men in friendly fire. Crinan had dispatched one of the loyalists, and the colonel saw Tathan take out another as he himself took aim at one of the trio remaining and squeezed a bolt from his zat. His target fell, stunned, and Cromwell fired again. They couldn’t afford to leave stunned enemies in their wake, to regain consciousness and possibly identify them. He refrained from administering a third, disintegrating shot. Although he’d seen more than a few of their enemies disappear this way, the idea still gave him the willies and he strove to avoid it when he could.

From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the Jaffa turn and raise a zat, shouting, _“Sha'lokma'kor!”_ His blood froze as he realized the first Jaffa was aiming directly at Cadogan, just a few feet away, who was engaged in an exchange of fire with the second. As if in slow motion, he saw the bolt of blue energy leave the sinuous weapon and strike the _cadlywydd_ , who fell, stunned, in its dancing glow. The horror was magnified as Cromwell realized that the second Jaffa had his own zat trained on Cadogan’s still form, prepared to deliver the bolt that would kill him.

A wordless cry escaped the colonel’s mouth as he dove across the distance separating himself from the _cadlywydd_ , firing at the second Jaffa even as he sought to shield his friend with his own body. He landed un-gently on the stone floor, heaving himself to his knees between Cadogan and the Jaffa. A searing, tingling heat enveloped him for a split second before the world went dark and cold…

 

***

 

His head was pounding in time with the rhythm of his heart. It was dark, and he felt chilled; chilled and wet. He was lying on his side on a damp, slightly rough surface — he could feel it beneath one cheek — that bobbed in time with a rhythmic thumping far out of phase with his heartbeat. This slower rhythm came from outside him, and he wondered idly what it might be.

Memory flooded back suddenly, and the blood sang in his ears as he recalled seeing Cadogan fall, struck by a zat blast. He struggled against a heavy softness that seemed to be weighing him down. Voices came to him then.

“He’s awake.” Armagil, close at hand and sounding relieved.

“Thank goodness.” Someone with an Alban burr. Crinan? Yes, Crinan, he realized a moment later.

The third voice flooded the colonel with relief of his own. “Here, get him a dry blanket; this one’s too wet to be doing any good.”

 _Cadogan!_ His friend was alive, and from the sound of things he’d regained consciousness first, probably with Sabar’s help. Even as he framed the thought, Cromwell felt several pairs of hands grasping at him. The heavy damp softness that held him down was pulled away and replaced by a drier layer of wool, blessedly warm despite its relative lightness. He felt the shivering he’d barely registered begin to slow. Another pair of hands gently lifted his head as a third positioned something soft beneath it — probably a folded cloak, to judge by its scent and feel.

A familiar hand gripped his, while another shielded his face. “Lie back and relax, Neirin, and open your eyes slowly,” said Cadogan. “Trust me, the light’s going to hurt if you don’t.”

“It’s going to hurt anyway,” Cromwell grumbled. “I’ve had my share of concussions and hangovers; I know how it works.”

He heard his friend chuckle. “Have you ever taken a zat shot at close range before?”

“No,” he admitted, slitting his eyelids open just a bit. It was like glancing into a thousand-watt floodlight; pain stabbed through his head. _Jesus Christ!_ He clamped his eyelids shut again as he felt tears well up.

“Too much?” asked the _cadlywydd_ , concern mixed with just a touch of humor in his tone.

“Yeah.”

The hand on his brow vanished, along with the one that had been holding both of his own. There was a faint rustling, and a second later his face was bathed in gentle warmth. He recognized the sensation of Cadogan’s healing device as the throbbing diminished. _What must it be costing him to do this?_ he wondered, knowing the _cadlywydd_ had recently taken a similar bolt.

“That’s good enough,” he told his friend. “I’m all right. Save your strength.”

The warmth of the _ta’el kesh_ faded a moment later, replaced by the warmth of a hand placed once more against his brow to shield his eyes.. “Are you certain?” asked Cadogan.

“There’s one way to find out.”

This time the pain was only minor as his eyes adjusted to the light. After a moment, the _cadlywydd_ drew his hand gently away. His face swam into focus, the hazel gaze still harboring concern. Cromwell felt a different sort of stab as — just for an instant — his mind’s eye overlaid another countenance upon the first: brown-eyed, younger, squinting out from beneath the bill of a USAF field cap with exactly the same expression of concern. The image vanished as quickly as it came, however, and the colonel struggled to sit up.

Cadogan slipped an arm beneath his shoulders, helping him to a sitting position. Cromwell surveyed his surroundings, peering over the lip of a shallow depression to do so. They were on a small barge, probably the same one they’d found moored in the docking cavern beneath the processing facility. Which begged the question: how in the hell had they gotten here? A glance assured him that all seven men who had accompanied him and the _cadlywydd_ into the dormitory and the ensuing firefight were present and accounted for. The barge was traveling downriver; the thumping he’d noticed came from the poles manned by Crinan and Machan, who were clearly doing yeomen’s work to speed their passage.

He looked back at Cadogan. “The last thing I remember is you going down after one of those Jaffa shot you.”

His friend nodded. “Armagil tells me you took the second bolt yourself, before Brioc and Tathan managed to kill both Jaffa.” The hand on his back moved up to clasp his shoulder with a fierce affection Cromwell had often felt from the other friend whose face he’d glimpsed fleetingly a moment before. “Thank you.” A pause. “Sabar thanks you too.”

The colonel shrugged. “You’d have done it for me.”

“That changes nothing, and you know it.” Cadogan pulled a canteen from his belt, unstoppering it and holding it out. “Drink some water. Trust me, you’ll feel better.”

Cromwell did as he was bidden, the lukewarm liquid soothing a throat parched raw from shouting and from the energies of the zat. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and handed the canteen back, realizing belatedly that his had somehow gone missing in the confusion. “Thanks. So what happened after that?”

Cadogan related the tale he’d been told upon his own return to consciousness. Apparently the seven men with them had dispatched the remaining loyalists and Jaffa who’d walked into their ambush, then managed to get both himself and the colonel away with the help of the empty handcart they’d seen outside. Opting to return through the main processing plant, they’d descended on the freight elevator platform to the loading dock, where they’d taken to the river on the barge. The blankets and cloaks had come from the dormitory where the fight had taken place, and the dampness was due to a slight mishap while they’d loaded their commanding officers, both still unconscious, onto the barge and into its shallow cargo well, where Cromwell and Cadogan now sat.

“While the rest of them hauled us off to this barge,” said Cadogan, “Armagil sent Crinan as a runner to locate another of our squads and let them know what we were doing, if he could, so we wouldn’t be thought lost. He succeeded, and doubled back to come with us. Fearghas and his team will rendezvous with the rest of the Wolves, and bring our mounts back to the fort with their own. We’ll be able to disembark at the Rath Tulach landing, with only a short hike from the river back to the fort itself. The barge will be turned loose to float downstream on its own with its mooring lines parted and frayed. With any luck, it will appear to have simply come loose at Doireglas.” The _cadlywydd_ paused, surveying him with a practiced eye. “How are you feeling?”

“Meaning, can I handle the hike? I’ll be just fine,” Cromwell assured him. “Your device took everything down to a dull roar. I’ve had worse hangovers than what’s left.”

Cadogan chuckled. “All right, then. Until we actually get there, though, it won’t hurt either of us to lie low and let the others do their jobs.” He stretched his length on a folded blanket laid parallel to the colonel’s own, pulled a borrowed cloak over himself, and closed his eyes.

Cromwell stared. Was Cadogan seriously going to take a nap in the middle of all this?  Sure, they had both taken bolts at close range, but still…

A moment later, the hazel eyes opened again, as though the _cadlywydd_ were able to read his mind. “I mean it, Neirin. Everything’s well in hand, and we’ll have plenty of warning if that changes. There are seven men on this barge with us, and all of them are watching for trouble. Even I need a moment’s rest after a hit like that, and I _know_ you do. I’d prefer not to make it an order.”

Cromwell knew there was no use protesting. He capitulated, lying back on his own pallet of blankets to stare up at the overcast sky — thankfully no longer spitting rain — until the gray clouds blurred and faded…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	42. A Higher Calling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cromwell's recollection of the 121st's briefing with General West is drawn directly from Flora's tale, "All Go Down Together". Once again, I am indebted to her creative genius.

_It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare, it is because we do not dare that they are difficult._   — Seneca

 

A harsh wind rattled the windowpanes in Cadogan’s office on the second floor of the _Am Rhyddid_ ’s Dinas Coedwyg headquarters. Fat raindrops splattered against the glass and ran together over the surface, turning the world outside into a blur of indistinct grays and browns broken here and there by patches of verdant evergreen, or fiery orange-yellow where some stubborn oak still held onto a mass of autumn foliage.

Cromwell drew his gaze away from the windows with an effort, focusing once more on the report being delivered by Graid, the movement’s local quartermaster. Graid was by no means unlikeable or unpleasant, but his manner when making a report rendered an already dull subject wholly soporific. After more than twenty-five years of military service, the colonel understood full well the importance of proper supply administration to any fighting force. However, that didn’t mean he found the details particularly gripping even under the best of conditions, let alone when conveyed in the quartermaster’s nasal monotone.

A brief glance told him that Cadogan wasn’t really feeling it, either. The _cadlywydd_ absently tapped the stylus for his diptych against the tablet’s wooden frame as Graid droned on about the number of saddle blankets needed to replace what an unexpected infestation of moths had destroyed. After a moment, the quartermaster finally wound down, closing his own diptych and looking at his commander expectantly.

Cadogan cleared his throat. “Is that all?”

“Yes, sir,” Graid replied.

The _cadlywydd_ favored him with a nod. “Then purchase the replacement blankets from whomever has sufficient stock on Weaver’s Row, and look into commissioning new trunks for their storage.”

The quartermaster inclined his head in the ubiquitous Pridanic gesture of compliance and took a seat as Cadogan made a note in his diptych. For a moment the only sounds in the room were the wind outside, the crackle and pop of the fire in the hearth, and a soft scratching as the stylus found a thin spot in the wax layer and struck the wood beneath.  The _cadlywydd_ pursed his lips and smoothed the waxy surface, then continued writing, ending the line with a firm stroke.

Laying the stylus aside, he turned to Cromwell. “Neirin, would you care to fill everyone in on our mission to Emhain?”

Despite having been stunned into unconsciousness — along with Cadogan — by zat fire during the latter portion of his Black Wolves’ joint raid upon Doireglas with Fearghas mac Cuilen’s own team of Emhaini rebels, Cromwell now knew the details of what had transpired even after he and the _cadlywydd_ had gone down. Awakening in the shallow cargo well of the barge with Cadogan at his side, he’d learned that his men had killed the entire mixed force of loyalists and Jaffa whom they had engaged in the firefight that had taken both Cadogan and himself out of action, then managed to escape on the barge with both unconscious men. Fearghas and his team had rejoined them shortly after their return to the fort at Rath Tulach, where the Emhaini _ceannard_ had related the tale of his own men’s exploits at the Doireglas facility, culminating in a rout of the attacking force of Jaffa sent by Moccas, as well as the strategically arranged deaths of several individuals loyal to Bel who had been among those in charge of the facility. Cromwell, Cadogan and the Black Wolves had spent the night in Rath Tulach, returning through the stargate to Tir Awyr the next day. Three days had passed since then.

Cromwell looked around the table at the rest of the meeting’s attendees: Nenniaw, Aeronwy and Dynawd from Llanavon, along with Brochwel, Eian and Llywarch, who commanded three of the six teams based in Dinas Coedwyg. Celyn and his team were on duty back in Llanavon, and the other three local teams were away on field exercises.

He took a sip of hot tea, then launched into an overview of what Fearghas had told them regarding his group’s possession of false Jaffa armor, following with a description of their encounter with Moccas’ Jaffa at Doireglas. “According to Fearghas, our own forces combined with those already at the facility managed to kill all of the foreign Jaffa. Four of Bel’s Jaffa were lost as well, and the administrative staff of the facility who were loyal to Bel were killed either by Moccas’ Jaffa or by ‘friendly fire’, if you take my meaning.”

“They’ll be replaced by personnel who are secretly members of our own movement,” Cadogan put in. “Fearghas says his own people are already on it.”

Cromwell nodded. “The interesting part of all this is that Moccas appears to think it well worth his trouble to conduct raids on Bel’s worlds for resources. While none of us wish to see such raids result in further deaths among our own people or the general populace, as long as the balance can be held to the point where Moccas continues to trouble Bel without causing him to clamp down too hard on any of our planets, we may benefit from letting Moccas absorb the blame for our own activities.”

Across the table, Aeronwy spoke up. “I can see why this is helpful, but how certain can we be of this balance persisting?”

“It’ll be tricky, and we’ll need to formulate several contingency plans to deal with various scenarios,” Cadogan told her. “Sabar and the Tok’bel are working on some of this, and we’ll have more information once the Tok’bel operatives sent to infiltrate Moccas’ organization report back. Until then, the best we can do is keep a sharp eye out for further activity and address each situation as it arises.”

The _filwriad_ inclined her head in acknowledgement, her dark braid slipping over one shoulder.

Cadogan sipped at his tea and glanced around the table before moving on to the next order of business. “I’d still like to have additions to the list of personnel willing to be trained to fly ger’tak. You all know of the plan to relieve Bel of his new ha’tak upon its completion, and if all goes well, we’re going to want to have plenty of qualified pilots for the fighter craft it can carry. If you have anyone in mind who hasn’t already been placed on the training list, please let me know.” He paused, fixing each of his officers in turn with a significant look. “Those pilots are going to need leaders as well, so we’ll need experienced officers to step up and take those roles. Any of you are more than welcome to volunteer, and I strongly encourage you to do so. You may also recommend officers under your command, or officer candidates — although again, I will stress that experience is preferable.”

The assembled _filwriadau_ exchanged uncomfortable glances, and Cromwell got the impression that none of them were particularly eager to take up piloting. He could sympathize, despite being familiar with flying craft — and now spacecraft, courtesy of Cadogan’s insistence that he learn to pilot the tel’tak recently.

The meeting wrapped up a few moments later. Cadogan stayed Cromwell with a gentle hand on his arm as the other officers filed out of the room, murmuring amongst themselves. When the two of them were alone, Cadogan crossed to the bookshelves that lined one wall of the office. Lifting down the _gwyddbwyll_ set that rested there, he raised an eyebrow at Cromwell. “Do me the favor of a game while we wait to see if the rain will let up?” he asked.

The colonel nodded his acquiescence. “I’m in no particular hurry to get wet,” he said, resuming his seat at the table.

Cadogan carried the game over and placed it on the table between them, taking the chair opposite. As he set up the pieces, he said casually, “I went over the list of pilot trainees again this morning.”

Cromwell tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “And?”

The _cadlywydd_ took a deep breath and blew it out between pursed lips. “Sixteen names.”

Cromwell blinked. “That’s all?”

“That’s all we’ve got so far. Why do you think I keep pressing everyone on this, Neirin? Of those sixteen, only four are officers, and three are of _those_ are recently-promoted, like Armagil.” As he spoke, Cadogan finished arranging the game board. “I don’t know what we’re going to be able to do with only sixteen pilots total and four squadron leaders. We’ve nearly that many ger’tak now, and if we get more along with Bel’s ha’tak — which seems probable, given that our spies in the shipyards swear they’ve seen plans to construct them — we won’t have enough people qualified to fly them.”

The colonel suspected he knew what was coming next. “Cadogan, if you’re asking what I think you’re asking — ” he began, then stopped. The rest of his words died unuttered as he was struck by the look of naked desperation on the _cadlywydd_ ’s face. It wasn’t an expression he recalled ever seeing from his friend.

“Neirin,” said Cadogan, “I know I promised not to ask this of you, but I’m asking anyway. I need at least one senior officer to learn to fly ger’tak, if for no other reason than having someone the others will trust who can explain that it really isn’t as difficult or as daunting as it obviously seems to them.”

Cromwell shook his head. “Why can’t someone like Armagil do that?”

“Armagil could, but I still think it will be much better if it comes from a senior-level officer. You’re the natural choice, given that you’ve already mastered the tel’tak. Flying ger’tak isn’t much different, barring certain elements of maneuverability and a slight adjustment to their flight dynamics. Believe me, you’ll have no trouble with it, and I think that seeing one of their number step forward and take the initiative will motivate some of the other officers to do the same.”

The colonel heaved a sigh, knowing he couldn’t refuse; neither in good conscience as an officer, nor in his capacity as this man’s friend. Not when Cadogan had given him so much in his time here. “All right,” he said. “When do we do this?”

Cadogan reached across the table to clasp his hand in gratitude. “The day after tomorrow suits me. Fair enough?”

 

***

 

Standing once more in the subterranean hangar at Caer Ynys, Cromwell looked dubiously at the small metallic device in his hand.

“Place that against your cheek,” Cadogan told him. “It’s a communicator, so we can talk. These work both intra-ship and from ship to ship.”

He shrugged and did as the _cadlywydd_ instructed. The device adhered lightly to his skin, and he felt a faint vibration that quickly faded. “So the control system for the ger’tak is the same as in the tel’tak, then?” he asked.

Cadogan nodded. “Essentially, yes. Both craft use the same type of control globe for piloting.” His voice came over the communicator as well as through the air to Cromwell’s ears. “You did well in learning to handle the tel’tak, so I really don’t expect you to have trouble with the ger’tak.”

Cromwell resisted the urge to shake his head. Of the two of them, Jack had really been the one with pilot training, not him. The circumstances of Jack’s transition from flyboy to ground forces had been complicated and murky with secrecy, but his piloting skills had come in handy a few times in the twelve years the pair had served together. Cromwell had handled weaponry on those occasions, making them a formidable team even in something other than their normal operating environment.

Like many fighting aircraft used on Earth over the years, Goa’uld ger’tak normally carried a two-man crew — a pilot and a weaponry officer — although a single individual could handle both elements of its operation if necessary. Sabar had insisted that each of the rebel volunteers be trained in both roles, so that any one of them could pilot the fighter craft, take responsibility for its weapons, or do both. The colonel hadn’t planned on learning to handle any of the Tok’bel’s collection of vessels at all, but when Cadogan had personally asked him to learn to pilot the tel’tak that was Sabar’s personal craft, he’d found the idea intriguing. After a day of lessons, Cadogan had pronounced him a more than adequate pilot for the craft, and he’d had several opportunities since then to practice. Now, at the _cadlywydd_ ’s behest, he was also going to learn to pilot a Goa’uld fighter craft and man its weapons controls. He’d never planned to be a fighter pilot, but again, his friend had made the request personally as well as professionally. The colonel had to admit that at least he’d probably spent more time aboard flying craft than most of the other rebels; certainly more than any of his own men. And other than himself and Gerlad, very few of the unblended human rebels had ever piloted a spaceship.

It was ironic, Cromwell reflected. Less than two years ago, he and the rest of the 121st Special Tactics had sat in a briefing room as General West explained their new assignment. The colonel had felt a guarded anticipation; after all, he was pretty sure he was about to find out exactly what Jack O’Neill had been involved in for the previous year or so, and also exactly how dangerous it was. But nothing could have prepared him for the two words with which West had opened the briefing.

“Space travel,” West had said, looking around the table at each man in turn.

“Space travel,” echoed Cromwell, confused. “General, we’re a Special Ops team. We’re hardly qualified for a shuttle mission.”

West smiled tightly. “You’ve been called here because you are uniquely qualified for this project.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” Cromwell told him. “We’re combat control and pararescue, sir. We shoot people. We rescue people — when we’re allowed to. We blow shit up. We don’t fly spaceships.”

“No, Colonel, you won’t be flying any spaceships,” West had replied, just before flicking on a slide projector and showing the 121st their first glimpse of the Stargate.

The general had been wrong about that, at least in his case, the colonel reflected. Although he could admit that for once it was through no fault of West’s own. _If someone had told me two years ago that I’d wind up piloting spaceships — hell, not just scout transports like the tel’tak, which at least isn’t much different in size from the Shuttle, but alien space fighters like something out of friggin’ Star Wars, no less — I’d have said they were crazy. West probably would have agreed with me, too._

He pulled his thoughts back to the present with an effort. “All right, let’s do this. I never thought I’d fly something like these, but I’m game to try.” _In fact, I’ve done damn little fighting in the air, and none of it in the past fifteen years unless you count hoping like hell not to take any fire on my way down to the LZ._

“I expect you’ll do just fine,” Cadogan assured him.

To his own mild surprise, he did. The _cadlywydd_ took second seat, usually the province of the weaponry officer, and instructed him from there. Sabar could have taken charge of Cromwell’s instruction, and the colonel had half-expected him to, but true to form, Cadogan assumed the primary role. His symbiote had taught him how to pilot one of these craft some time ago, he explained, and he welcomed the opportunity to impart that skill to another — with, he admitted, some input from Sabar himself. This one ger’tak out of the Tok’bel’s collection had been altered slightly, outfitted with a second control sphere in the weapons station to enable its use as a twin-seat trainer. The colonel noted, not without amusement, that some things might simply be universal.

After leading him through the ridiculously simple prelaunch sequence, Cadogan ordered the doors of Caer Ynys’ hangar bay opened, and guided Cromwell through the actual launch. Leaving the bleak surface of the small moon behind, they soared into space. Cromwell was struck yet again by the awesome beauty of the pale gas giant about which the Tok’bel stronghold orbited. Its striations reminded him of photos of Jupiter. Pressing back the momentary pang of homesickness which still occasionally assailed him when he thought of things connected with his native world, he focused his attention on the ruddy sphere embedded in the console before him. Feedback from the alien control system was still a strange sensation, and he’d not yet completely shed his amazement at the idea of controlling a vessel with mere thought and touch. _The DOD would kill to have a system like this to study. I wonder how much technology has actually come back to Earth via the Stargate Program, anyway._

Shaking off the reflection, he concentrated on Cadogan’s instructions and the fighter’s controls, acclimating himself to the feel of the smaller craft as he put it through its paces under the _cadlywydd_ ’s tutelage. The ger’tak was definitely more maneuverable than the tel’tak, and Cromwell quickly found that he needed to adjust his reaction time to match the smaller craft’s capabilities, not to mention the fact that the sensation of rapid flight was far more pronounced in the ger’tak given its smaller size. He spent a couple of hairy moments on the edge of letting the fighter get away from him before he began to get the hang of it and settled into a more-or-less steady rapport with its control systems. Cadogan assured him throughout the process that this was normal, however, and nothing he should feel bad about. “There’s a learning curve involved here, Neirin, and you’re doing what every new pilot does in one of these. Don’t worry; you’ll be fine.”

They spent perhaps two hours in flight before Cadogan said, “All right. I think you’ve got the flying part. Let’s turn our attention to weaponry.”

Now came the tricky part. The ger’tak fighters were outfitted with what were essentially scaled-up versions of a ma’tok. Over his time among the Pridani, Cromwell had thoroughly familiarized himself with the use of the ma’tok staff that, along with the zat’nik’tel, formed the basis of both the _Am Rhyddid_ ’s arsenal and its Goa’uld counterpart. He’d been rated an expert marksman by the Air Force back on Earth, and his skills had carried over to the use of the alien weapons. Firing a ma’tok in a ground battle was one thing, though, while using its oversized cousin while flying a fighting ship through space was quite another. Cadogan put him through his paces, conducting several strafing runs on the back side of the desolate moon housing Caer Ynys, as well as directing him in practice firing at orbital targets in the small debris belt that circled the gas giant itself. At first he missed his targets far more frequently than he hit them, causing no small measure of frustration, especially in light of the fact that he’d previously handled the weaponry of atmospheric fighter craft with a fair amount of skill. Determined to master the task at hand, Cromwell persevered, gradually gaining control over the ger’tak’s firing system and feeling his level of confidence return.

He was closing in on physical and mental exhaustion by the time Cadogan finally instructed him to turn back toward the nameless moon once more, arrowing for the small canyon that hid the doors of the hangar bay from any prying eyes. Not that Bel or any other Goa’uld suspected the base’s location, Sabar had assured him many times. The Tok’bel had ample evidence of that from their own operatives within Bel’s hierarchy and the fact that Caer Ynys had never suffered an attack. Cromwell knew that a previous base had in fact been destroyed by Bel, leading the Tok’bel to relocate here, but he got the impression that had happened many years ago. The current base was far better hidden, said Sabar, and unlikely to be detected.

“Are you comfortable with navigating the canyon in the ger’tak?” came Cadogan’s voice over the commlink as they approached their destination — a ragged furrow in the moon’s desolate surface, just one more scar in a landscape that seemed to be made of them.

The canyon twisted across the rocky plain like an addled snake. Still, Cromwell reasoned, he seemed to be getting a good grasp on piloting their craft, despite its different feel from the tel’tak. “I manage all right in the tel’tak, so this shouldn’t be terribly difficult,” he said, adding, “Just stand by to take over if I get us in trouble.”

The reply came in Sabar’s voice, rather than Cadogan’s. {“I’m not worried,”} said the Tok’bel cheerfully.

The colonel grunted. “I’m not either, really, but be ready just in case.”

A chuckle, in modulated harmonics. {“I will.”}

The entry went smoothly, external sound returning as they passed through the forcefield barrier that held the atmosphere inside. He brought the ger’tak down gently in its assigned spot, and the massive metal doors of the hangar slid closed as they ran through post-flight and shut down the craft. At Sabar’s direction, the colonel pressed the control that lowered the cockpit capsule through the bottom of the vessel. _I still say this is a strange design, but it works,_ he thought as they descended.

Together, the pair climbed out of their seats and stepped down to stand on the cavern’s crystalline floor. The Tok’bel leader nodded, wearing a look of satisfaction on the face he shared with the man who had become Cromwell’s closest friend in this unexpected new life he had been forced by circumstance to carve out for himself. In recent months, the colonel had slowly grown somewhat more comfortable in dealing directly with Sabar than before, although he still couldn’t completely shake the bizarre sense of _otherness_ he still felt sometimes, especially when he looked into Cadogan’s eyes and unexpectedly found the symbiote looking back at him. He noticed the change when he was watching it, as both members of the pair never failed to look down and make the switch with closed eyes. “More comfortable for everyone,” Cadogan had once explained. Cromwell had never been subjected to the eye flash he knew that Goa’uld were wont to generate; all of the Tok’bel took care to hide it. But at times when he hadn’t actually seen the exchange, it could be disconcerting to suddenly find himself dealing with Sabar rather than his host. The colonel noted that he was getting better at sensing which consciousness was in charge, however. Some subtle difference in expression, the cant of the head, or body language usually alerted him nowadays to the fact that Cadogan had ceded control to the symbiote.

Sabar patted the ger’tak’s massive wing, satisfaction mixing with appraisal in his expression as he smiled at the colonel. {“Neirin, you’ve caught onto this amazingly fast, even given that you’ve already been trained on the tel’tak. Between that and today, I’m guessing you were at least reasonably familiar with flying craft before you came to us, weren’t you? Not spacecraft necessarily, but atmospheric ones, no?”}

Cromwell fought to keep tension out of his own body language. The question sounded innocent enough, but if the sketchy information from his Air Force briefings were at all representative of the larger picture, most of the worlds on which the Goa’uld had settled their human slaves still possessed relatively low-tech cultures, with technologically-advanced worlds being few and far between. The colonel knew that Sabar was already aware he did not hail from a completely low-tech world. His wristwatch was one clue; he had never bothered to hide it, reasoning that it was rather too late to do so by the time he’d decided to blend in with the local population. Any human who had already seen it would be somewhat familiar with the similar devices worn by some of the Tok’bel, and the colonel hoped that they would think his nothing more than a slightly different model. Likewise, he knew that the Tok’bel he’d encountered were sure to have already noticed it, although none had inquired about it. Cadogan, and therefore Sabar, had seen the device up close on countless occasions, but if it provided any clue to his origins, neither had mentioned it.

But aircraft were a far cry from wristwatches, even digital ones. _Or are they?_ Cromwell asked himself. _Probably not, in terms of tech level,_ he realized. Still, the watch was something he could perhaps hope to pass off as tech imported to his world from elsewhere, while a familiarity with powered flight was another story. For a fleeting instant he wondered how many human worlds actually had flying craft of any description other than those of Goa’uld origin. _Probably not too many._ On the other hand, Sabar was pretty perceptive, and Cadogan was no slouch either. Belatedly, the colonel realized that he might have inadvertently given away an important clue to the identity of his homeworld by failing to hide the fact that he understood the essentials of flight dynamics. True, the inertial-negation drive utilized by Goa’uld and Tok’bel craft for sublight travel was a game-changer, but at least some of the principles were still the same, especially in atmosphere.

Well, there was nothing for it now but to brazen his way through and hope. He put on his best poker face and answered in a neutral tone, “I’ve seen them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Sabar nodded again. {“I know that several worlds have them. The Aschen planets, for instance, not to mention one or two of the worlds from which my former hosts have come.”} He regarded Cromwell expectantly, as if looking for some hint of recognition at the name of what must be a relatively high-tech culture. The name meant nothing to the colonel, but it was obvious that the symbiote’s curiosity was aroused.

Groaning internally, he nevertheless kept a tight rein on his reactions. “Sabar, I — ” he began cautiously.

The Tok’bel waved him off. {“Oh, don’t fuss. I know you prefer anonymity, and to be honest, I really don’t have any problem with that. I’ll admit I’m curious, but I think I know you well enough — or Cadogan does at any rate, which amounts to the same thing in terms of trust — that I don’t really _need_ to know where you come from if you have some reason for not telling me. You’re a Pridano now anyway, and a very useful one at that, so I won’t pry.”} He laid a hand gently and briefly on the colonel’s shoulder, turning him away from the ger’tak and beginning to walk them both toward the doorway that led from the hangar back into the main tunnels of Caer Ynys. {“You’re certainly not Aschen yourself; you haven’t anything like their attitude. I don’t think you’re Tollan either. Though if it turned out you were from someplace like, say, Volia, I might completely understand your reticence, since I know the Volians have had their share of problems not long ago. Being Volian could go far in explaining how easily you learned Pridanic, too.”} Sabar raised one eyebrow a fraction as Cromwell looked at him, but the colonel kept his silence. After a second, Sabar glanced away, then back again with a wry smile. {“My apologies, Neirin. I should know better than to let curiosity get the better of me by now. I won’t ask again, all right?”}

‘Tollan’ sounded vaguely familiar, but Cromwell had no clue who — or what — the Aschen were, nor the Volians either. Rather than admit this, however, he simply nodded. “Fair enough, Sabar. I know Cadogan’s curious too, but he doesn’t ask. And I just would really rather not talk about it.”

{“I can accept that. Again, I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”} There was genuine regret in Sabar’s expression.

“It’s all right.” The colonel changed the subject as they entered the airlock leading to the narrow tunnel that would take them into the lower levels of Caer Ynys. “I will tell you that I never once dreamed I would find myself piloting any kind of craft in space, and now you’ve taught me to handle two of them. It’s a bit much to wrap my mind around, when I stop to think about it. But I think I like it.”

Sabar grinned. {“Good. I’m glad to hear it, because I’d like you to spend more time on this. When we get to the point of being able to really make use of these ger’tak, you know as well as I do that we’ll need seasoned commanders to lead our pilots. You’ve already proven yourself in the second category, and I think you’ll do quite well in the first. What do you say — are you willing to lead a squadron when the time comes?”}

Despite having harbored a sneaking suspicion that this request might be coming at some point, Cromwell still found himself taken aback by the speed with which it had arrived — so much so that he stopped in his tracks, staring at Sabar. His mind raced. He’d agreed to help in any way he could, he knew. Even so, nearly forty-eight was a bit late in life to embark on a career as a fighter pilot, wasn’t it? Let alone becoming a squadron commander? _Old dog, new tricks… Then again, my life’s been a steady parade of new tricks this past year or so..._

His companion apparently misinterpreted his bemusement as reluctance, for he bowed his head and closed his eyes, ceding control to his host. A second later, Cadogan looked up and said, “Neirin, Sabar wouldn’t ask if he didn’t sincerely believe you were the right person for the job. And neither would I. But we’re both asking.”

Cromwell snorted. “To be honest, I don’t know if I’m the right person or not.” Then again, was anyone? Truth be told, he did have experience and knowledge relevant to what was being asked of him, whether or not he admitted it to Sabar, or to Cadogan either. And he’d never been one to walk away from a challenge, nor from a friend’s sincere request in a time of need. “But I’ll do it, if you’re sure that’s what you want.”


	43. Friendship

_With true friends... even water drunk together is sweet enough. —_ Chinese proverb

 

“Do you have a moment, _cadlywydd_?”

Cadogan looked up from the open diptych on his desk to find Gerlad standing in the doorway of his study. “Certainly. Since when do you have to ask me?”

The younger man shrugged. “You seemed occupied, and this isn’t about _Am Rhyddid_ business. Young Bryn ap Coll is downstairs and has a question for you. I’d have directed him to the _bennaeth_ Idris if he were home, but he and Anwen are visiting Bren Argoed today if you’ll remember — ”

“ — and so it’s my turn to play chieftain,” Cadogan finished with a chuckle. “Go and tell the boy to come and see me.”

Gerlad inclined his head in a gentle nod. “At once.” He turned and disappeared down the hallway.

 _I wonder what the child wants?_ Cadogan mused.

{Don’t ask me,} answered Sabar. {Apparently it’s something that can’t wait for Idris, though.}

The _cadlywydd_ gave a mental chuckle. _Well, we are talking about Coll ab Eudef’s son, after all. Young boys aren’t much given to patience as it is, and Bryn possibly less than most, from what I’ve heard._

{That reminds me of someone I know,} Sabar commented drolly. {I wish I could remember who…}

 _Oh, hush,_ said his host good-naturedly. Cadogan was well accustomed to the gentle teasing his symbiote sometimes gave him over the foibles of his boyhood and youth. Sabar had been present for many of those years, his previous host Berwyn having been a member of Clan Branoc himself. Berwyn had chosen to headquarter the _Am Rhyddid_ in Dinas Coedwyg in part for the safety of his own kin and their households, but the rebellion’s heart and soul had always been right here in Llanavon, where Branoc ap Gryg had once vowed that all his progeny would oppose Bel the Deceiver and lead any fight to overthrow him and free Tir Awyr. Thus had Sabar observed the growth and personality of one Cadogan ap Cynan, younger son of the clan’s then-chieftain, for several years before Cadogan reached his majority and officially joined the rebellion’s ranks. Berwyn had taken on the role of Cadogan’s mentor when the latter was merely sixteen, helping to shepherd the rash, raw youth safely to responsible adulthood. Sabar, having both observed and at times assisted in the process, rarely missed an opportunity to offer his current host a loving reminder of the impetuousness of his younger self.

There came the thump of footsteps on the stairs, their slightly uneven rhythm suggesting that their guest was taking them two at a time. Cadogan suppressed a grin, pretending to study his diptych as he heard the boy approach the doorway.

A slight cough sounded just before he heard tapping on the doorframe. Looking up, he saw the familiar reddish hair and freckled countenance of Coll’s son, not unlike Coll’s own appearance. _Now there’s an apple that fell not far from its tree,_ he commented silently to Sabar.

Smiling, he said aloud, “Hello, Bryn.” At the boy’s sudden hesitance, he raised a hand, beckoning. “Come in, son; come in. Gerlad tells me you have something you wish to ask me?”

Bryn ap Coll was not quite ten years old, and while he wasn’t particularly shy, Cadogan was aware that the boy seemed to be somewhat in awe of him. Granted, he supposed that his age, his rank and his station might combine to elicit that sort of reaction from a child who knew these things without knowing him well on a personal level, but by thunder, he didn’t want or need the local youth to be tongue-tied in his presence. Respect was one thing, but awe made him uncomfortable. He was merely a man, and anything else he might happen to be came by accident of birth or as the byproduct of his status as Sabar’s host — and that came simply from his service to the rebellion.

He realized that whatever young Bryn’s question might be, the boy had probably intended to pose it to Idris, with whom he was likely more familiar. Idris had always lived here in Llanavon whereas he and Sabar had been away for months at a time until the past year or so. Unaware of Idris’ absence today from Bennaeth Bod, Bryn had likely spied Gerlad at some mundane task in the dooryard and simply asked after ‘ _y bennaeth’_ , meaning Cadogan’s nephew and co-chief, only to be surprised when he was bidden to approach Cadogan himself. Caught unprepared for the encounter, the boy now stood silently in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot as though unsure how to proceed.

Unfolding himself from behind his desk, the _cadlywydd_ crossed the room and reached out to clasp the boy’s arm in greeting. “Come on in,” he said again, drawing the child gently into the room and guiding him toward the pair of chairs that sat before the fireplace, turned so they faced slightly toward each other as well as toward the hearth. “I’m not going to bite you, son.”

Lowering himself into one chair, Cadogan patted the other. “Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.”

Wide-eyed, Bryn nodded and perched himself on the edge of the empty seat. “ _B-bennaeth,_ ” he began, stammering slightly. “Er, _c-cadlywydd_ …”

Cadogan shook his head, smiling again. “Let’s try ‘Uncle’,” he suggested kindly. Not only was it a common enough term of respect from a child or youth to any man at least old enough to be that individual’s father — although he supposed that in his own case, to be addressed as ‘Grandfather’ would have been more than equally proper — but he was certain that Bryn was in fact his kin along at least one branch or other of the complicated tree whose fruit was the local populace. Coll’s line had been present in Llanavon since Branoc’s time and must surely have entwined with his own at some point over the span of several generations.

His eyes even wider, Bryn nodded. “Uncle…” He swallowed, then continued, the words suddenly tumbling out in a rush. “I was wondering whether you or _Bennaeth_ Idris had decided who should receive Ethni’s puppies?”

{So _that_ ’s what he’s after!} Sabar exclaimed with a silent chuckle.

Cadogan suppressed the urge to laugh aloud. Now he understood what weighty matter had brought the boy to see him. Ethni, Bennaeth Bod’s deerhound bitch, had given birth to a litter of eight pups — four of each sex — just over two months earlier. All eight had survived infancy and weaning, growing to become healthy, playful and sometimes inconvenient balls of fuzz who liked nothing better than to scamper about the house whenever humans were present. Cadogan knew that some of the previous holders of Bennaeth Bod hadn’t been keen to allow their dogs in the house, but Idris had as much of a soft spot for them as he did, and thus Ethni and her get were permitted indoors rather than being relegated to yard, stable and shed.

With at least six pups in need of home — Ris had announced his intention to keep one for himself and Idris was of a similar mind to keep another at home along with its dam — there had been some discussion as to who ought to receive the remaining puppies. A dog of this type was an asset to a household, being useful as a companion or guardian for children and in myriad other ways. They were also useful for hunting deer and boar or even the occasional wolf if one should happen to threaten livestock. There weren’t many wolves on Tir Awyr, but there were some. Cadogan knew from Sabar that Bel had likely imported a few of them along with the other animals that had accompanied his ancestors from the First World in order to achieve some natural balance in the environment he intended for his slaves. While those first arrivals had undoubtedly had livestock, wild game would have been seen as necessary too, and that meant having some natural predators other than humans to keep their numbers in check so their overall breed would be healthy.

He’d always thought it odd to reflect on this, but in essence it did give some truth to the belief held for years before the Wars of the Gods and the Interregnum that followed that Bel had so ordered the world as to provide a fertile home for his worshippers. He had, but it wasn’t done out of benevolence or for their own benefit.

Cadogan pulled his attention back to the present. Bryn was swinging his feet, which dangled just a few inches off the floor, and watching his face nervously. _Well, Coll’s family was mentioned and agreed upon, so I suppose it won’t hurt to tell them by way of Bryn,_ he commented to Sabar.

“We have indeed,” he informed the boy solemnly.

The feet swung faster as the blue eyes widened again.

{Oh, give it up,} Sabar told him.

Cadogan chuckled, grinning. “Bryn, which do you think would be better, a boy or a girl? Or perhaps we should ask your mother and father?”

The boy’s face lit up with a smile so broad as to be barely containable. “Oh, a boy, please, Uncle!” Suddenly remembering the manners in which his parents had undoubtedly drilled him, he hopped off the chair and executed the slight bow of the head that was as far as any Pridano went toward obeisance, even to a clan chieftain — or to the highest military commander in all the Five Worlds. “Thank you, _bennaeth_. Er, Uncle.”

“You’re quite welcome, Bryn. I’m sure you’ll give him a good home.” As Cadogan spoke, the boy’s eyes met his again. “One thing, however: I should like to wait until Idris has returned from Bren Argoed before you take your puppy home, because I know that he and Ris each want to keep one, and I don’t recall which ones they’ve chosen.”

“When will he be home?” The anticipation in Bryn’s voice was palpable.

“Sometime this evening, I believe. One of us will send word to you and your family then, if it isn’t past your bedtime, and you may come and choose _your_ puppy. If Idris returns late tonight, then we’ll do it tomorrow. Fair enough?”

Bryn nodded, his attempt at formality warring with the joy in his expression. “Yes, please. Thank you again.”

Cadogan clasped the boy’s shoulders warmly. “You’re more than welcome, Bryn. The pups need people to take care of them, and I know you’ll do a fine job of it.” He stood, guiding the boy toward the doorway. “You should probably go and give your mother and father the news, so they have time to prepare a bed and all the other things puppies require when they leave their mothers for their new homes.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy flashed him a grin and made for the stairs, his pace just short of a run.

“Bryn?” the _cadlywydd_ called after him.

“Yes, Uncle?”

“Take the stairs one at a time, please. You may have need of your neck.”

“Yes, sir!”

Cadogan listened to the retreating footsteps. At least it _sounded_ like Bryn was following his instruction, although he was going nearly too fast to tell. _And you just hush,_ he cautioned his symbiote, knowing that another comment about his own boyhood behavior was probably forming in the Tok’bel leader’s mind.

{What did I say?} asked Sabar innocently.

_Nothing yet, but you were about to._

{I wasn’t, I swear.}

 _Then that would be a first,_ Cadogan told him drily.

{So, who else is going to get a puppy?} Sabar asked, changing the subject. {I know a few other names were mentioned, but you’ve still not accounted for all of them.}

_Well, for one thing, it’s high time Neirin had a dog._

{I like that idea. I wonder if he’s ever had one before. Nearly all human cultures have dogs, of course, both on the world of their Tau’ri ancestors and the worlds upon which the Goa’uld settled them. But not all families keep them.}

_He’s a member of my family now, and Branoc’s line have always kept and bred hounds. I’ve seen the way Neirin laughs at the pups’ antics when he’s here, and I’m guessing he will enjoy having one of his own._

 

 

***

 

 

Cromwell approached Bennaeth Bod with a sack of meal over his shoulder. It was part of the tithe of the miller Derfel, which the colonel had offered to convey for him. Lighted lamps set in the manor’s windows cast a cheery glow in the gathering twilight, the diamond-shaped windowpanes creating patterns on the small front lawn that was all that remained of what he’d been told was once an extensive forecourt. After Tir Awyr was reconquered by Bel, the local folk had looked to their chief, Branoc ap Gryg, and his family for protection and drawn in close. As a result, the present-day village of Llanavon had grown up within what had once been intended as the manor home’s private grounds.

Having seen such edifices from time to time during his travels on  Earth — though most of them had been on a grander scale — the colonel could imagine what Bennaeth Bod might have looked like during that brief golden moment spanning the twenty years between the time of its completion and the arrival of the Goa’uld system lord’s invading force. Today the house was simply the largest among the cluster of homes that lined Llanavon’s narrow cobbled streets. Even surrounded as it was by smaller houses and cottages, it was still an impressive structure. At one time, Tesni assured him, it had fronted directly on the village square, although that had been when her grandfather was a young man. Since then, another row of houses had been built between the manor and the square, with a cobbled lane between. Owing to Bennaeth Bod’s imposing, high-ceilinged height, however, it was still possible to look out the windows of Cadogan’s second-floor study and gaze across the neighboring rooftops directly into the square.

His breath misting in the chill air of late autumn, Cromwell mounted the steps onto the wide front porch and reached for the door handle. It had taken him weeks after he’d been assured that it was well within his rights as a member of the family to simply walk straight in without knocking before he’d been completely comfortable in doing so. He’d endured much gentle, affectionate scolding from both Tesni and Anwen — not to mention Cadogan and Idris — before finally breaking himself of the compulsion to knock.

Tonight the issue was rendered moot as the door swung open to reveal Ris. “I saw you coming up the walk, Uncle Neirin,” said the youth, reaching for the sack. “Here, let me take this. Mother and Aunt Tesni say to tell you that dinner’s nearly ready, and Uncle Cadogan has asked that you join him in his study beforehand.”

Cromwell divested himself of his load and shrugged twice to loosen cramped shoulders. Brushing at a stray bit of meal that had found its way through a seam in the sack to adhere to the wool of his tunic, he smiled at his protégé. “Thank you, Ris. I’ll go and see him now.” He clasped the young man’s left shoulder briefly as Ris lifted the sack to his right, then turned toward the stairs leading to the second floor.

Cadogan occupied a chair before the study’s fireplace, a glass at his elbow and the poker in his hand as he stirred the blaze. At Cromwell’s tap on the doorframe, he turned and laid the poker down. “Ah, Neirin. Good evening to you.”

“Good evening, Cadogan.” Cromwell took a seat in the other chair, twin to the _cadlywydd_ ’s, that faced the fire. The chairs were upholstered in densely-woven horsehair fabric, its rich dark sheen accented by the firelight. They always reminded the colonel of the wing chair in his grandparents’ parlor in Nanticoke. He recalled his _Taid_ Cromwell sitting in that chair every evening to smoke and read the newspaper just before dinner, with his feet propped on the hassock and pipe smoke curling around his head.

Cadogan, of course, bore no resemblance to the colonel’s grandfather and was nowhere near his age, nor did he smoke. He rarely used a hassock, preferring to stretch his legs out before him and rest his bootheels on the hearthrug. Still, there was something comfortingly familiar in their ritual of relaxing together before or after family dinners with conversation and brandy or _dwr o fywyd_ , the ‘water of life’ distilled by the Pridani and the neighboring Albannu — who called it _uisge beatha_ -— from malted barley dried in kilns. _Scotch by any other name,_ Cromwell had mused upon first encountering it, delighted to discover whisky production alive and well here on Tir Awyr.

Jack O’Neill had introduced him to Scotch from the standpoint of a connoisseur. Cromwell had consumed his share of whisky before that, but Jack’s approach was different, and under his best friend’s tutelage he had developed a taste for several varieties of single-malt. Cadogan’s preference was for a particular style of _dwr o fywyd_ made not more than ten miles from Llanavon, in a place called Blaen Fynnon. Its spicy, slightly fruity flavor carried just a hint of smoke and differed from that of Cromwell’s beloved Laphroaig and the other rich, smoky Islay single-malts he had come to favor back on Earth. The local product apparently used malt dried over wood fires rather than peat, the latter being uncommon in this area. But it had a charm all its own, and he was glad for the _cadlywydd’s_ having made him aware of it.

The historian in him was still trying to figure out whether the art of the drink’s manufacture might be something that had come with the Celts originally brought from Earth or a practice that had developed independently later on. The fact that the names in use for it here smacked of a shared origin — ultimately Roman at its root — with those used on Earth indicated that it had predated the relocation, but as far as he knew, distillation hadn’t reached the British Isles until several centuries after that time despite having long been known in the ancient world. He surmised that among these transplanted Celts the distiller’s art might well have spread to Tir Awyr from descendants of the Continental Celts settled on any of Bel’s other four planets, which made sense since their ancestors would have had longer contact with Rome before being removed from their world of origin. Either way, it had been a pleasant surprise to find that the Pridani had a thriving industry in the making of spirits.

Cadogan lifted a decanter made of greenish glass from the small table set between the two chairs and poured amber liquid into a fresh tumbler before topping up his own. Cromwell took the proffered drink and murmured thanks, sniffing appreciatively. The liquor’s rich nose assured him that this was indeed the _cadlywydd_ ’s favorite Blaen Fynnon variety, aged a dozen years or more and possessing a smooth mellow warmth entirely appropriate to the substance that George Bernard Shaw had once called ‘liquid sunshine’.

He raised the glass, inclining his head toward his friend. “To your health.”

Cadogan mirrored the gesture, a smile playing about his face and a mischievous look in his eyes. “To yours,” he echoed.

They drank, and Cadogan took up the poker again, shifting a log from the edge into the midst of the fire. Sparks popped and flew upward. “I have it in mind to give you a gift, Neirin,” he said, laying the poker down once more.

“There’s nothing I need, Cadogan, and you know it.”

Cadogan gave him the mischievous look again. “I think you might find this useful, regardless.”

Cromwell raised an eyebrow. “What are you planning this time, and how worried should I be?”

The _cadlywydd_ chuckled. “There’s nothing to worry about at all, Neirin. I merely think that a man can never have too many friends… and you’d be doing me a favor into the bargain.”

 _What in the world is he leading up to now?_ the colonel wondered. “Cadogan…”

Cadogan waved a hand, the chuckle morphing into a laugh. “You should see your face right now,” he said. “Relax. I only mean to send one of Ethni’s pups home with you and Tesni this evening.”

Cromwell snorted. “Oh, is that all?” He hid a smile behind a sip from his glass. “You had me worried there for a moment. I was wondering what else you’d managed to acquire that needed flying.”

His timing was perfect. Caught in mid-sip himself, Cadogan struggled not to laugh again, but failed. Something halfway between a cough and a guffaw escaped him, and he set his tumbler down on the table between them, tears streaming from his eyes as he mopped his face with his handkerchief. “How do you do that?” he wheezed. “You’re nearly as bad as Sabar.”

The colonel grinned. “I’ve had practice.” He watched as his friend coughed a couple more times and then blew his nose before putting the handkerchief away again. “You all right there?”

Cadogan matched his grin, his face still pink. “I’m fine. And it was worth it to see your expression a moment ago.”

Cromwell chuckled. “I suppose it was.” He stretched his legs, matching the _cadlywydd_ ’s own posture, and wriggled his toes inside his boots as the warmth of the fire began to penetrate. “I haven’t had a dog in a long time. Not since I was around Ris’ age.”

“Well past time for it, then. I’ve seen how you enjoy watching the pups play. Do you have a favorite?”

The colonel began to shake his head, then thought better of it. “Actually, the male with the lighter spot behind one ear is probably the one I like best. Though they’re all great pups.”

“Well, if he’s the one you want, then he’s the one you shall have. Ris is keeping one of the other males, and Idris has decided on one of the females. I’ve already told Coll’s boy that he may have a pup, and he wants a male as well, but Idris and I felt the household should have first choice.”

“Thank you, Cadogan.” Cromwell grinned. “It’ll be fun having a puppy around, and Ethni’s breed are beautiful dogs.”

“Tell me about the dog you had when you were a boy, Neirin,” Cadogan invited. “Did you have more than one?”

Cromwell took a sip from his glass, the warmth of the whisky blazing a trail down his throat as its heady bouquet filled his nostrils. “Well, only one at a time, but I had two of them. The first was Shane, a cross between two breeds of herding dogs.” Shane had been half German Shepherd and half Border Collie; a dark-furred, intelligent animal with a playful disposition. “I was very small when my family got him, and my older brother was the one who really trained him. Good dog; lots of fun to have around and Nick did a good job with his training. After Shane died, we got Duke, who actually looked quite a bit like one of your deerhounds.” Duke had been a mixed-breed dog as well, but his predominant heritage appeared to have been Irish Wolfhound. He’d been part of a litter of pups born to a neighbor’s wolfhound bitch, and there had been other wolfhound crosses in the neighborhood. Cromwell remembered Duke as a majestic-looking dog with the rough coat and general body proportions of a wolfhound, although his coloring had been brindled brown and black with a hint of copper like the male collie-shepherd-probably-wolfhound mix who’d lived up the road, and his head had appeared narrower than was common in most wolfhounds.

Cadogan nodded with interest. “Did you hunt with Duke, then?”

“No,” said the colonel, shaking his head. “I know some people where I come from hunted with dogs, but I never did. I understand it’s common here, though.”

“But you did hunt?” The _cadlywydd_ was looking at him oddly now.

“Oh, sure, I hunted. Deer, mostly. Just didn’t take the dog with me, that’s all.” Cromwell recalled the countless times he’d taken to the woods with a rifle during deer season in his youth. Hunting here was done with bow and arrow, something he’d never gotten around to trying on Earth, despite having learned archery in high school where it was part of the physical education curriculum. Thus far he’d not yet been included in a hunting party, having been rather busy with the tasks Cadogan had set for him in his service to the _Am Rhyddid_. He knew he’d want some practice with a bow beforehand, to reacquaint himself with the ancient weapon.

“You said your first dog was a herding dog. Did your family have sheep, or was it cattle or maybe goats?”

Cromwell shook his head. “None at all, actually. We didn’t have any herd animals; our only animals were the dogs and a cat we had for a while. It wasn’t uncommon for people on my world to keep pets for companionship alone, and that’s primarily why we had ours.”

Cadogan nodded slowly, wearing the expression that said he was conversing internally with Sabar. “I see.”

His friend was clearly trying to integrate the idea of non-working dogs into his worldview, and Cromwell offered an explanation. “Cadogan, life on my homeworld is a bit different from here. A lot of our food comes from very large farms rather than small ones, and at least in the area where I grew up, there are more people who _don’t_ live on farms than people who do. Some of my neighbors were farmers, though, and as a youth I did do farm work sometimes, for pay. I’d milked cows and fed chickens and all that before coming here, and done some planting and harvesting too.” He didn’t mention that most of his planting and harvesting had been done in his family’s vegetable garden, as the farmers he’d known on Earth used motorized equipment to plant and harvest their crops. He’d learned to operate some of it as a teen, mostly for hay-making, but of course none of that mattered here on Tir Awyr, where fields were still tilled by hand or with the help of horse-drawn equipment such as plows. What he’d learned in his parents’ and grandparents’ vegetable gardens had thus far proven sufficient for doing his fair share of the communal work necessary to keeping the local populace fed.

“It shows, Neirin. You’ve never shied away from doing any of those tasks in your time among us. I suppose I simply haven’t considered all the ways in which your world might actually vary from our own.” The _cadlywydd_ held up his glass, studying firelight filtered through the amber whisky. “Are things really so different here compared to there?”

Cromwell contemplated this as he sipped from his tumbler again before answering. “Not in any truly important way, when I stop to think about it. Our ways of doing certain things may be quite different, but the principles behind them are the same, and the results… well, let’s just say that I’m completely comfortable with the way I live here, and what I have in my life.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Cadogan smiled warmly. “I know it took you some time to find your feet among us, but it’s good to know that you’re happy.”

Cromwell raised his glass in a half-salute to his friend. “I am. As I told you before, there’s nothing I need that I don’t already have.” He grinned. “But I’ll be pleased to have that puppy.”


	44. Prodigal

_Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail._ — Ralph Waldo Emerson

  


  


A bitter wind whipped across Rak'lar's frozen landscape, skimming snow pellets from the tops of shallow drifts and carrying them aloft. Sabar blinked, wincing as the tiny crystals stung his — and Cadogan's — face.

Drawing a fold of woolen cloak up to shield them from the icy spray, he apologized silently to his host. {I understand why my brethren choose inhospitable, uninhabited worlds on which to construct their bases,} he said. {Obviously, we do the same. But at least _I_ had the good sense to put our _chappa'ai_ inside the tunnels when we moved it. Sorry about the nasty hike.}

Cadogan's response was accompanied by a mental chuckle. _At Caer Ynys, our tunnels are within the crust of a nearly airless moon. There wasn't much other choice but to place the_ chappa'ai _inside._

{True,} Sabar acknowledged. {But even if there had been, I think I still would've opted to have it within the base rather than an hour's hike away, especially in a climate like this one.}

 _Maybe this is what we get for having managed to miss winter on Emhain,_ Cadogan teased.

{Don't say that. Winter there is just beginning, and we've no guarantee we won't have to visit again before it ends,} Sabar reminded him darkly. The symbiote harbored no more love for snowy weather than did his host.

_Good point._

Sabar had been planning to visit Rak'lar, current site of the mainline Tok'ra's primary base, ever since his conversation with Nasara some six months previously. Now had seemed like the perfect opportunity, as the past several weeks had brought a lull in the activities of the _Am Rhyddid_ and its constituent movements on the Five Worlds. Plans still moved forward to steal Bel's ha'tak upon its completion, but beyond maintaining a schedule of drills and field exercises designed to keep their rebel units sharp and ready, little else could be done at the moment in the way of preparation for that endeavor. Not for their ground forces, anyway, most of whom might well see their first spaceborne action — albeit within the pressurized, gravitized confines of an orbital drydock facility and the ha'tak itself — on that mission if all went according to plan.

The rebellion's nascent pilot corps was another matter. Since introducing Neirin to the flight controls of both tel'tak and ger'tak, Sabar and Cadogan had continued to accompany him to Caer Ynys every couple of days to practice with the ger'tak in the debris field surrounding the nameless gas giant. They also practiced maneuvers within the atmosphere of another of the giant planet's many moons. Gravitationally similar to the planets upon which Bel had settled his slaves, it was a world devoid of any known life, but whose gaseous robe closely mimicked those of the Five Worlds in terms of both density and transparence. The _filwriad_ now handled the fighter with a practiced ease, his skills the equal of any Jaffa's whether in open space or in atmosphere. Soon he would be ready to take on the task of training other pilots, whose number would — Sabar and Cadogan both hoped — include some of Neirin's fellow senior officers. Whether Neirin's example encouraged or shamed them into participating was almost immaterial at this point, the pair reflected; what was important was that they step up, and bring other volunteers forward with them.

In contemplative moments, Sabar still found himself curious as to precisely where Neirin had made his first acquaintance with flying craft. Unless he was a far better actor than Sabar was willing to credit, his nephew by marriage seemed wholly unfamiliar with any of the planets or peoples the Tok'bel leader had mentioned to him. Not that he'd harbored any real suspicion that Neirin came from among the Aschen, nor the Tollan either. He had none of the supercilious manner so common to the Aschen, nor the studied aloofness displayed by the few Tollan with whom Sabar had made any acquaintance.

For a moment he wondered idly whether the Tollan had made any headway on their search for a viable world to which they might evacuate the remainder of their people before their destabilized planet became completely uninhabitable. He supposed that Neirin's reserved secrecy _could_ be a cover for his being a Tollan operative involved in that search, but… Sabar dismissed the thought a moment later. Far from being disturbed by the fact that the Tok'bel had given advanced weaponry to the Pridani and other rebels of Bel's domain, Neirin seemed to approve wholeheartedly, an attitude unlikely to be found in a Tollan.

That left the Volians, and perhaps a handful of other worlds known or suspected to have a technological level consistent with flight capability. The primary language on Volia was related to most of those spoken on the Five Worlds and he knew that Neirin had arrived on Tir Awyr speaking a tongue similar to Pridanic, but some instinct told Sabar this guess was equally wrong. Harappa was out as well, for the simple reason that Neirin bore no resemblance to the swarthy inhabitants of Nirrti's troublesome former possession, rumored as recently as two centuries ago to have unsealed its gate upon attaining a level of technological advancement they felt might allow them to protect themselves against the Goa'uld. He knew of Harappa only through whispered tales that had run rampant through Vayu's court during his time there, deep undercover as a spy for the Tok'ra High Council, when his host was a man named Langen. As far as he was aware, no Harappans had actually been encountered elsewhere among the worlds connected by the network of portals currently or formerly under Goa'uld control.

No, Neirin must hail from somewhere else. Sabar wished mightily that he could figure out where, but he had promised to respect the man's desire to keep that knowledge to himself and would refrain from questioning him further. That didn't mean he couldn't speculate, of course…

His attention was brought back to his current surroundings by a shout from ahead, carried on the icy wind. A half-dozen black silhouettes appeared, moving toward him over the frozen landscape. Closing in, the leader shouted again, challenging him. He recognized the voice of Lantash, in the particular modulation colored by his host Martouf. A symbiote's voice altered according to the structure of the host's larynx, meaning that each fresh blending endowed the symbiote with a new voice as well as a different outward appearance. Fortunately, Sabar had encountered Lantash — and Martouf, for that matter — more than once since blending with Cadogan.

He pushed back the hood of his cloak, wincing as he let the woolen fabric fall away from his face, leaving it once again bare to the frigid spray of windborne ice crystals. "Lantash, is this any way to welcome an old friend?"

Lantash threw back his own hood as Sabar closed the distance between them, a smile lighting Martouf's narrow features. "Sabar, it's good to see you."

Beside them, a shorter figure snorted beneath the hood that shadowed his ruddy countenance. "I'm guessing you aren't here because you've realized the error of your ways and come to atone to the Council?" The other four Tok'ra exchanged glances but said nothing.

{As if that's likely to ever happen,} Sabar commented silently to Cadogan. { _My_ ways are hardly the problem.}

_You know that and I know that, but we both know there are those on your Council who frown on them all the same. Do you expect you'll be called to account for your actions while we're here?_

{Probably not directly. I never have been. Taken aside quietly and given a dressing-down? Wouldn't be the first time, not even in your own memory. But a full disciplinary session? I'd be very surprised at something like that. We have an understanding, the Council and I. Well, most of the Council and I,} he amended. {As long as we're still feeding them useful intelligence when we have some, and don't draw attention to their operations, they essentially ignore me, and the rest of the Tok'bel.}

While Sabar and his host were in conversation, Lantash rounded on the Tok'ra who had spoken.

"Pargan, there's no need to be rude," he said, his tone one of admonition. Pargan was a close friend of Delek, and shared Delek's disapproval of Tok'ra who allowed their hosts to have too much influence over them. It was no secret that he took a dim view of Sabar, who had broken with the ranks of mainstream Tok'ra out of a desire to directly aid Berwyn's people not long after blending with the Pridanic man.

"You're a fine one to talk," Pargan retorted. "You're nearly as bad, letting Martouf tell you what to think half the time."

Lantash appeared to be on the verge of spitting back a heated comment of his own, but then his eyes took on the preoccupied expression that Sabar knew meant he was listening to his host. It was common knowledge that of the pair, Martouf was the calmer and more level-headed partner, and tended to keep Lantash on an even keel more often than not. In a way, this made Pargan's jibe somewhat true, although certainly not appropriate, Sabar reflected. After all, since a host willingly let you inhabit and utilize his or her body, it was only right to treat that host as an equal partner in the relationship. He wondered whether Pargan's host ever regretted having agreed to their blending.

With an elaborate shrug, Lantash turned away from Pargan, addressing Sabar again as they began the trek that would lead them to the entrance to the tunnels. Pargan and the others followed a few paces behind. "My apologies, Sabar," said Lantash. "I bid you welcome. What brings you to visit us, after so long away?"

  


***

  


General Hammond tapped his pen on the desk blotter before him. Thoughts chased each other through his brain as he reflected on the stalled search for the missing colonel.

He'd seen the haunted look in O'Neill's eyes grow stronger with each fresh query of the MALP left to monitor the situation on P2A-870. Not only had the rains on the alien world failed to let up; if anything, the storm had intensified, eventually bringing high winds and hail. There was no way he was sending a team into that if he could help it. At the same time, O'Neill's bleak expression tugged at his conscience and his memories. He'd seen the same look in Cromwell's eyes over dinner at O'Hare, when the colonel told the story of what had happened in Iraq, and how he'd been prevented from attempting to rescue his best friend. Seen it in his own face as well for long months after one of his own closest friends was shot down over Vietnam.

Feretti had worn it too, he recalled, or something at least similar. The major's personal concern over a fellow officer with whom he'd been out of touch for nearly a decade had been readily apparent in the Control Room. Clearly, SG-1 would have no shortage of willing assistance in the search for Cromwell once the weather cleared on P2A-870.

 _If_ it would just hurry up and do that.

By now, even Hammond was becoming irritated with the delay. Losing two weeks to gravity-induced time dilation had thrown a monkeywrench into the SGC's timetable as it was. Ever since Captain Carter had programmed the information from the Abydos cartouche into the facility's dialing computer, they'd been sending out teams on a steady schedule of exploratory missions to whatever viable addresses came up. The additional addresses provided by Colonel O'Neill during his recent encounter with an ancient database that downloaded itself into his brain had expanded that program further, to the point where the general had begun to contemplate adding some new teams to the project's roster, just before losing SG-10 to the black hole lurking in the system that contained P3W-451. Now they were one team short and sixteen days behind schedule, taking into account the time necessary for the installation of the new, trinium-enhanced iris over the Stargate's central aperture.

While the Joint Chiefs and the President understood the reasons why the SGC was now forced to play catch-up, there was nevertheless a sense of urgency to the program, an urgency that had persisted since the narrowly-thwarted Goa'uld invasion of Earth last Christmas. Hammond and his personnel were racing the clock to find allies, resources, weapons — anything that might help Earth defend itself against future attacks. That need for defense was what had led to Cromwell's having any involvement with the SGC at all.

Realizing his thoughts had begun to go in circles, the general shook his head. The bottom line, he reminded himself as he opened his desk drawer and placed the pen inside, was that he couldn't afford to keep his flagship team on downtime indefinitely. Hammond knew he was assuredly no expert on climatology, planetology or whatever other fields of scientific study might explain the conditions found on a given world accessible through the Stargate. But that didn't mean he was wholly ignorant of the basics, either. For a planet to reasonably and comfortably support human life, as P2A-870 obviously did, its dominant weather patterns had to fall somewhere in a range not too far from conditions on Earth, didn't they? That meant the storms currently happening around P2A-870's Stargate couldn't last much longer… could they? Surely within a day or so, SG-1 — along with possibly SG-2 and SG-5 — would be able to return and continue searching for the missing colonel. He'd give them a few days to search. Cromwell couldn't have traveled very far from the Stargate in such awful weather, so finding him shouldn't take long. They could offer the local population some assistance with recovering from the storms as well, hopefully cementing a beneficial relationship with Earth should the planet prove to have useful resources. Such a two-pronged approach should go a long way in offsetting the initial delay caused by the weather itself.

However, if more than another day or so passed without any let-up in the weather that would permit sending teams to P2A-870, Hammond knew he was going to have to send SG-2 and SG-5 on other scheduled missions just to keep from falling any further behind. Ever since Senator Kinsey's shenanigans late last year threatened to mothball the entire program, the general was only too aware of the need to meet certain expectations. _Never mind that our people successfully repelled an attack force and prevented Earth from invasion by hostile aliens; we still have to deliver the goods while walking a very fine line._ He shook his head again at the sometimes nauseating requirements of bureaucracy, especially one replete with such small minds as the senator's.

As for SG-1, Hammond suspected he might have to send them off on another mission as well, as much for the sake of distraction as for any need to adhere to a timetable. Already, O'Neill was walking a fine line of his own, and the rest of his team was feeling the effects...

  


***

  


{"So the consensus is that if any of Ra's worlds do experience an uprising, we're to just stand by and watch?"} Sabar leaned back against the cushions of the settle in the living quarters shared by Lantash and Jolinar, propping his feet on a hassock. Like himself, the Tok'ra couple tended to furnish their surroundings in such a way as to maximize the comfort of their hosts.

Jolinar answered him from her seat on the edge of the bed. {"So says the Council. There isn't a high probability of an uprising on Tamilat, but Lantash says that Fayoum seems ripe for one."} She brushed a lock of Rosha's fair hair away from her face and tucked it behind one ear. {"There may be unrest brewing on more than one of Ra's worlds, for that matter. It seems the harder one clamps down on humans, the greater the chances that eventually the pressure will cause them to rebel."}

{"I hadn't noticed,"} Sabar commented drily. He quirked a half-smile at Cadogan's wry, if silent, chuckle.

Martouf, occupying a chair beside the bed, colored a bit. Sabar could tell when Lantash's host was in control of the body they shared, because the unconscious reflexes common to humans were far more in evidence then. "Of course, Sabar," Martouf acknowledged. "If anyone knows that, you certainly would." He took Jolinar's hand in his own.

Sabar waved a hand at them. {"Never mind that; I knew what Jolinar meant. In any case, you'd think Ra would know it too, given what happened to him when the Tau'ri threw him off their world."}

Martouf closed his eyes and bowed his head. A moment later, it was clear that Lantash had assumed control. {"I just find it frustrating to think of standing aside and doing nothing when we could be helping."}

{"I find it equally frustrating,"} Sabar said, frowning. {"To enable Ra's slaves to wrest control away from him and deny him the fruits of their labors and the resources of their world — any of their worlds — would be quite a blow against his power and his pride. Isn't that what Egeria had always hoped for?"}

{"So Lantash has said,"} agreed Jolinar, still holding her mate's hand.

Unlike Lantash and himself, Sabar recalled, Jolinar was not one of Egeria's offspring. She'd begun life as a Goa'uld, serving a succession of minor System Lords as one managed to defeat another and swallow the domain of the vanquished. In the process, Jolinar had risen through the ranks of Goa'uld military commanders. She'd also gotten a first-hand look at the often ruthless methods the various System Lords used to conquer each other and the way they treated their subordinates, not to mention their callous disregard for the humans who inhabited the planets they controlled. Jolinar had once told him of the exceedingly bitter taste this had begun to leave in her mouth even when she was still a loyal military leader in their employ. Eventually realizing that she had little patience left for life as the often underrespected lackey of one or another tyrant, she'd set out to stage her own coup against the System Lord she served at the time, only to be forced to flee when both Ra and Apophis joined the battle and her own subordinates threatened to betray her.

Disgusted and disillusioned, Jolinar had renounced her Goa'uld heritage and made her way to the Tok'ra using intelligence she'd originally been set to gather for the System Lord she'd tried to overthrow. She had learned the location of a minor Tok'ra base but had not yet shared this information with anyone else. Arriving unannounced, she promptly offered herself up to the custody of the base commander, eventually managing to convince the Tok'ra of the sincerity of her defection. Since that time, many centuries ago, she'd become one of the most steadfast and daring of Tok'ra operatives. Her reputation among the Goa'uld, of course, was decidedly negative. Rumor had it that she was more completely hated by the Goa'uld than any other individual among the small cadre of defectors who'd joined the ranks of Tok'ra over the past two millennia.

Jolinar herself cared little for what her former masters thought. Her commitment to the Tok'ra cause was complete, and Sabar recalled her swearing publicly her willingness to sacrifice her own being if necessary to bring about the defeat of the Goa'uld. Her relationship with Lantash was of relatively recent vintage in Tok'ra terms, but Sabar knew that the fiery Lantash had found in her a kindred spirit of nearly equal intensity, if somewhat more controlled in the expression of her temperament.

{"So what would you suggest, Sabar?"} asked Lantash. {"The Council will never allow us outright involvement with any uprising on Fayoum, or anywhere else. Garshaw has made that clear, and while Selmak put it somewhat more diplomatically, it's fairly obvious that she agrees with Garshaw. If you ask me, I think they're both still smarting over your departure. Not to mention the fact that when you went, you took several successful operatives along with you."}

Sabar raised an eyebrow. {"Perhaps they — and the rest of the Council — ought to realize that more than a few of their operatives feel it's time we did more than nudge the pieces about the board. We skulk about causing bits of trouble here and there, working from the top down — but what if the way to really disrupt the Goa'uld power structure is to work from the bottom up as well? Humans revolted on the Tau'ri world once, and succeeded in ejecting Ra. I'm not suggesting that the people on all Goa'uld-controlled worlds are going to rebel, but if enough of them did so that it disrupted the flow of raw materials and undermined the System Lords' power, their position might be weakened considerably."}

Jolinar snorted. {"In principle I don't disagree with you, Sabar, but Ra and his vassals have thousands of worlds in their thrall. If even two out of ten staged an open revolt, more than likely he and the others would simply exterminate the humans on those worlds and either concentrate on the ones they had left, or perhaps re-settle a newer, more loyal group there to work the mines and provide slaves and hosts."}

{"Who says they all have to be open revolts? At least at the beginning, anyway."} Sabar drummed restless fingers on the arm of the couch he occupied. {"An awful lot can be accomplished with simple work slowdowns."}

{"Things like that have been known to get entire colonies of humans eradicated and replaced, you know,"} she reminded him. {"It isn't as if all Goa'uld are as ineffective as Bel at meting out discipline."}

Sabar thought of Dwynwen and Teilo, kin to his host and parents to Idris and Tesni. In a moment of ire, Bel had ordered their deaths at the hands of his Jaffa over some minor gaffe he'd regarded as insolence. Perhaps Bel wasn't given to inflicting punishment on a massive scale, but on those occasions when he did hand it down, it was swift and decisive… and often completely unpredictable. The Celtic rebels knew this, and were undeterred by it, something he suspected the System Lord would never understand. {"Bel does his share, Jolinar. Then again, if humans are simply encouraged to just keep quiet and go along to placate the Goa'uld, how does that help the cause of their freedom?"}

{"Who said this was about human freedom?"}

Sabar stared at her. {"Well then, what is it about? Tell me that, Jolinar."}

{"Now, my love,"} began Lantash, squeezing his mate's hand.

Jolinar turned to him. {"Oh, I don't mean it that way, and you know it."} A nod at Sabar. {"And so do you, or at least you should if you think you know me at all. Goa'uld I may have been at one time, but I've no more desire to see our hosts' kindred ground beneath Goa'uld heels than you have. Either of you."}

She sighed, a frustrated sound. {"But the simple fact is that there's more at stake here. When it wasn't humans who were being exploited, it was Unas. Who's to say what species might be next? The Furlings? Someone else? This is a vast galaxy, and there are likely to be more races than we've even met. Unas and humans can be deadly enough on their own; when taken as hosts their cunning has only augmented what was present in our own species — yes, _ours_ ,"} she reiterated sharply, when both Sabar and Lantash would have spoken in protest. {"Remember well your own mother's beginnings. It's philosophy that separates us from the Goa'uld, not any genetic difference beyond the memories and inclinations that Egeria bred into you and your siblings."}

{"So what are you saying, exactly?"} Sabar couldn't quite keep the note of challenge out of his voice.

{"What I'm saying is that since the Goa'uld deliberately draw on the genetic makeup of host species to enhance the odds of a successful match between symbiote and host, I would be worried if they were influenced to abandon humans only to move on to exploit an even more dangerous species. There are factors present in human mental architecture that mitigate the species' danger to some degree. But imagine for a moment what a generation of Goa'uld symbiotes would be like if they were enhanced with genes drawn from a _fully_ predatory species, perhaps one that lacked those mitigating elements. If the Goa'uld are ruthless now, what do you think they'd be like then?"}

Lantash pursed his lips. {"So you're saying that at least humans are a known quantity, as are the Goa'uld they host."}

Jolinar nodded. {"I want the Goa'uld to cease enslaving _anyone_. Blending with a willing host is one thing, and naturally there will be some genetic exchange involved between symbiote and host species. But it occurs to me that humans who are given a free and fair choice are often enough willing to blend with Tok'ra, knowing they won't be giving up all autonomy and that there are indeed benefits. So there's no need for coercion. I can't imagine a truly committed predatory species being willing to blend, however, which means that while the Goa'uld might well take them by force, the Tok'ra would likely never have members of such a species as hosts. Therefore it is in our best interests to keep the Goa'uld using human hosts until we can find a way to either turn them all, or somehow destroy them all. What we _cannot_ do is chance their partnering with some new species who would give them strength or skills that we do not possess."}

Sabar turned the thought over in his mind, and found it sobering. On the one hand, Jolinar did have a point, though he found certain elements of it repugnant. Nonetheless, her logic was sound… at least as far as it went. {"I doubt the Furlings are really a consideration here,"} he said. {"Do we know of any other potential host species to which the Goa'uld might be tempted to turn, should humans begin to make themselves too difficult for continued use? I know I certainly haven't heard of any, although spending my time in the backwaters as I do, it isn't as if I get _all_ the latest news."}

Lantash shook his head. {"If there were news like that, Sabar, I hope you realize that someone would have made it a priority to bring it to you. No, fortunately what my esteemed mate is discussing is pure hypothesis, at least for the moment."}

Jolinar cast him a look but declined to comment. Lantash continued, {"Nevertheless, she does bring up a valid argument. Any direct move against the Goa'uld must be carried out with the endgame in mind. And that endgame must revolve around the Goa'uld ceasing to take _any_ unwilling hosts or to seek power over other races."}

Sabar shook his head. {"I understand, Lantash. I even agree. But _mai'tac_ , I don't like the idea of missing an opportunity. Maybe it's because I've been working directly with human rebels for so long that I'm beginning to think like them."}

 _Perhaps Selmak does have a point in what I know she's told you, and Berwyn and I have both had a stronger effect on you than you've been prepared to admit,_ Cadogan suggested. His mental tone carried a note of concern.

{You're the _last_ person who should be backing up Selmak on that,} Sabar told him silently. {If not for Berwyn's influence, the _Am Rhyddid_ would not have Tok'bel allies, and you and I would never have met.}

_True, and I'm well aware of it. But placing you so completely at odds with your own kind —_

{ — is by my own free choice, Cadogan,} he reminded his host. {I knew what I was doing when I started down this path, and I know what I'm doing now. Our alliance is not the problem here. While it's probably true that I do think more like one of you than like most Tok'ra, I don't see it as a drawback. The Goa'uld don't really innovate, so perhaps if the Tok'ra were to adopt the practice, it might be precisely the tool we need to defeat them. And knowing how and when to utilize a new mode of thought is an innovation, is it not?}

 _You have a point,_ Cadogan conceded. _It just pains me to see you so frustrated._

{I've been through far worse, my friend,} Sabar reassured him. {Don't trouble yourself over it.}

Both Lantash and Jolinar waited politely for them to finish this internal exchange. {"My apologies,"} Sabar said aloud. {"Cadogan occasionally concerns himself with the thought that perhaps his people have demanded too much of me, and I must remind him that they have not."}

Lantash gave him a knowing look. {"That sounds similar to Martouf when he's been taken to task too often by Pargan or Delek for 'overstepping the bounds of what constitutes proper behavior for a host'."} He managed to deliver the phrase in such a nearly-perfect imitation of Pargan's supercilious tone that Sabar suppressed a chuckle.

{"On such occasions,"} Lantash went on, {"I find myself reminding Martouf again that he and I have what appears to be a far healthier and happier bond than do Pargan and Sotrel."}

{"Is that the name of Pargan's host?"} Sabar was surprised to realize that he'd never truly known, despite the fact that the Tok'ra in question had been with the same host for at least forty years now. {"Poor man; I've almost never heard him utter a word in his own right."}

{"There is more of Goa'uld in Pargan and some of the others than they might be comfortable admitting,"} Jolinar observed pointedly. {"Egeria's memories and the imperative she bred into her offspring are strong; of that I have no doubt. But some, it seems, still cling to an older notion of expediency even as they embrace her goals. You may think what you like of me, Sabar, but even you must admit that I have never once marginalized any host I've had since my Turning."}

Sabar found himself taken aback by her words. {"My dear Jolinar, _I_ have never once entertained the thought that you might. I've spoken with Rosha at length, you'll recall, and with her predecessors. Not one was unhappy in being your host, and well do I know it."}

"Both of you, enough. Please." Martouf rose from his seat in the chair and began to pace the small chamber.

Sabar blinked. So intent had he been on his exchange with Jolinar that he hadn't even noticed as Lantash ceded control to his host.

From the look on her face, neither had Jolinar. {"Martouf,"} she began.

He quieted her with a wave. "Never mind. I know you don't mean to sound accusatory, but when has Sabar ever suggested what you're alluding to?"

Sabar found his voice. {"Martouf, for what it's worth, I didn't take it that way."}

Martouf arched an eyebrow. "Then I commend you for your patience."

Sabar sighed inwardly. Martouf was more perceptive than that, of course. {"All right, perhaps I did. We're obviously all a bit on edge, though, and I'm willing to believe it wasn't actually meant the way it sounded."}

Jolinar unfolded her graceful frame from the bed and crossed the narrow space separating it from the settle. Taking a seat on the cushions next to him, she said, {"My apologies, Sabar. You're right; we are all on edge, but that's no excuse to go making trouble that isn't otherwise there. I didn't mean to be defensive; I know you understand that I'm every bit as respectful toward my hosts as you are of your own."}

She grimaced, giving a minute shake of her head. {"Your visit simply happens to coincide with the Council's convening to discuss contingency plans should Montu's rumor regarding Heru'ur's designs against his father turn out to be true. Since it was I who brought them that bit of knowledge, I will also be the one put on the spot to report every smallest detail of what I know, and if anything should go awry with our planning, it will be on my head."}

 _No pressure there, hey?_ observed Cadogan wryly. _I can't blame her for being testy, given the circumstances. Your Council are formidable enough when one_ isn't _the subject of their scrutiny._

{True enough.} Aloud, Sabar said to his friends, {"I understand. Can I help in any way?"}

A look of relief crossed the pale features as Jolinar once again tucked her hair behind her ears. {"Thank you, but I think things are as well in hand as they're going to be. I just can't work out whether Montu's accusation is genuine, or something he's manufactured to advance some other purpose entirely of his own. That's what frustrates me, and not just because I know the Council are going to ask and it _is_ an important distinction."}

Martouf crossed the room and joined them on the settle, taking a seat on the other side of Jolinar and stroking her hair with one hand. "I'm sorry as well, my love. You're under stress, and I shouldn't add to that. As Lantash has reminded me."

Sabar regarded his friends affectionately, aware now of the cause of the tension he'd noticed almost since his arrival and wishing to do what he could to help alleviate it. {"It seems to me that whether Montu's claim is genuine or not, it's best to proceed as though either Heru'ur or Montu could be the primary threat to Ra's stability. That is, as far as anyone really can be considered a threat to him at the moment. In what way would the two scenarios differ?"}

They discussed the various details for a while, Jolinar relating not only what she'd heard directly in Montu's own words, but the gist of the rumors and intrigue that apparently passed for a normal atmosphere these days in his palace. Sabar was reminded of his time undercover at the court of Vayu, some thirty years or more before blending with Berwyn had propelled him into work of a different sort in the same overall effort against the Goa'uld. Speculation and suspicion had run rampant among some of Vayu's sycophants, although the inner circle had been stable and largely harmonious — no mean feat among Goa'uld society.

A tap at the entry to the chamber interrupted their conversation. Looking up, Sabar saw Nasara and Remir in the doorway.

{"Is this a bad time?"} asked Remir.

{"No,"} replied Lantash, once more in control of the body he shared with Martouf. {"Please, come in."}

The new arrivals joined them, and Jolinar bustled to place cushions on the chamber's floor, there being nowhere else to sit at the moment. Remir folded his host's long legs beneath him as he settled onto a cushion. Elu was tall, with the olive skin and dark hair common among those born on Candrajala, one of Vayu's worlds.

{"On our way here, Nasara and I were stopped by Garshaw and asked to inform you that the Council requests your presence this evening,"} said Remir, fixing Sabar with a sympathetic gaze.

{"Wonderful,"} groaned Sabar. He had hoped to either avoid Garshaw and most of the other High Councilors altogether, or at the very least, have only private interactions with those he could not avoid entirely. Garshaw obviously had other plans.

{"At least I won't be having all the fun,"} quipped Jolinar.

{"Really, don't let me deprive you,"} Sabar shot back, though not without some humor. {"Then again, I suppose that if the Council wish to harass — er, consult with me while I'm here, at least I'll be in good company."}

Jolinar smiled her gratitude. Sabar was well aware that while Lantash's mate had no problem with carrying out the Council's wishes and orders, she, like himself, found certain of its members a bit abrasive. Garshaw was high on both their lists for that particular designation, he knew.

No, he definitely wasn't looking forward to a meeting with the Council…


	45. Gauntlet

_Daring ideas are like chessmen moved forward; they may be beaten, but they may start a winning game_.  — Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 

 

The faint warmth of living crystal seeped through his tunic as Sabar leaned against the wall just outside the Council chamber, waiting to be called. He listened to the murmur of voices within, rising and falling as they discussed various items on the agenda.

Jolinar had already been called into the Council’s presence, ostensibly to elaborate on the intelligence she’d gathered during her latest visit to Montu’s court and her impressions thereof. Lantash was inside as well, taking his turn as a Council runner. Tok’ra who were present in the base and not members of the Council took rotations in this position, from seasoned operatives to the rank and file who filled support positions. Sabar had spent countless hours in this role himself over his lifetime prior to leaving to form the Tok’bel.

He wouldn’t mind having some of those hours back, he reflected. Among the Tok’bel, he still spent plenty of time in meetings — the splinter group he’d formed had its own hierarchy — but at least there, he led the discussion.

 _After a fashion,_ Cadogan reminded him.

{True; we’re a bit more informal and egalitarian than our brethren. I wouldn’t have it any other way.}

_Of course not. Else you and the others wouldn’t have been minded to break with tradition for our sake in the first place, I’ll wager._

Their private conversation was interrupted by the sound of raised voices from inside the Council chamber. Delek’s in particular dominated.

{“Jolinar, based on what you learned while in Montu’s domain, are you or are you not of the opinion that Heru’ur is plotting to weaken Ra’s power base by attempting to wrest away several of Ra’s subject worlds completely?”}

Jolinar’s softer reply was somewhat muffled by the thick wall separating the chamber from the corridor in which Sabar waited, but her tone was noncommittal. Sabar heard Delek begin to interrupt her, only to be interrupted in turn by Odran, currently the Supreme High Councilor.

{“Delek, Jolinar is a seasoned operative and may well know the current mindset of certain Goa’uld better than either you or I.”} Odran’s firm voice carried over Delek’s and into the corridor without his ever seeming to have actually spoken above a conversational volume. It was a talent the Supreme High Councilor shared with his First Brood sibling, Selmak. {“This wouldn’t be the first time that Montu has attempted to sow worry and discord among other Goa’uld by suggesting that one has designs on the other’s power. At the same time, it also wouldn’t surprise me if Heru’ur truly did plan something along the lines of what has been intimated. If even our own operative — who at one time was Goa’uld herself, in service to a System Lord, and who was lately undercover in the very presence of Montu — cannot ascertain which is the actual case, then how do you propose to do so from your comfortable position here at Rak’lar?”}

Sabar had to give Odran a certain respect for that. The Council leader seemed well-attuned to the precarious position in which operatives worked. Not that this was any great surprise, as Odran had long been one of the Tok’ra’s best operatives himself. No, what was more surprising was how quickly those like Delek seemingly forgot what field work could be like once they were removed from it for a while. That had a tendency to change once they rotated off Council duty and back into the field, however.

There came more murmuring from the chamber in response to Odran’s words. Sabar noted the voices of Selmak and Garshaw rising slightly above the others, though even his keen ears could make out only the odd phrase here and there. Still, he strained to listen. He could sense his host doing likewise. Cadogan’s hearing had been slightly sharper than the average man’s even prior to their blending, and a symbiote improved upon his or her host’s senses for their mutual benefit. But the acoustics of the chamber and the tunnel confounded them this time.

Remir leaned against the wall on the other side of the tunnel, keeping him company while he waited. Catching Sabar’s eye, he nodded toward the rounded entrance to the short tunnel leading to the Council chamber. {“I don’t know why Delek keeps on like he does. You’d think that Jolinar hadn’t already told them everything she saw and heard, twice. _And_ given her impressions as well.”}

Sabar shrugged. {“It’s Delek. He’s been like this forever. We’re of the same Brood, you know, and the same partition, so we’ve known each other since we were birthed. I can’t recall a time when he was anything but overbearing and pompous. Firmly committed to the cause, of course, but his attitude… well, let’s just say he sours whatever water he’s in.”}

Remir pulled a face. {“You don’t have to tell _me_ , Sabar. At least you haven’t had to endure his company much these past hundred years or so. Selmak sent me on a mission with him that lasted several weeks, perhaps thirty years back. Made me wonder what I’d done to irritate her.”}

{“Let me guess: he spent half the time lecturing you on how to keep poor Elu in line?”} Sabar asked sympathetically. Remir nodded.

Sabar knew his friend, like himself, believed in actually consulting one’s host in matters likely to affect things like bodily integrity or survival, while Delek seemed to have little respect for humans as a whole, despite acknowledging his own need for a host. {“Sometimes I think he’s spent too long playing the part of a Goa’uld, and it’s rubbed off on him,”} he suggested.

{“I don’t doubt it,”} agreed Remir.

Allowing the conversation to lapse back into silence, they listened for several more minutes to the drone of deliberation from the chamber, catching only the occasional clear comment. Soon the echo of footsteps sounded in the entrance tunnel and Lantash appeared, beckoning to Sabar. {“It’s your turn,”} he said apologetically.

Sabar glanced at Remir with a shrug. {“Wish me luck.”}

{“You’ll be fine, Sabar. What are they going to do, banish you if you say something they don’t like?”} One ebony eyebrow arched as Remir spoke, and Sabar chuckled despite his misgivings as he turned to follow Lantash.

On entering the chamber, he surveyed the Councilors gathered around the table, noting that he recognized every face. There was Odran, as a member of the First Brood one of the eldest of the Tok’ra, his host Rugar tall and greying-blond with calm green eyes. To Odran’s right was his brood-sibling Selmak. Sabar had been struck by the deep blue eyes and thick pale hair of Saroosh, Selmak’s host, from their first meeting long ago, but friction between Saroosh and Berwyn had disrupted the cordial respect that had previously existed between himself and the elder Tok’ra operative. There was less friction between Saroosh and Cadogan, but of course by now Sabar had been absent for so long from his mainstream kin that the rift persisted, aided by the difference in their philosophy regarding direct intervention. Selmak nodded coolly, her host’s blue gaze somewhat faded by the wear of years.

Per’sus occupied the seat across from Odran, watching with an expectant expression as Sabar followed Lantash into the room. To his left Delek scowled, saying nothing, while next to him Sindel pushed jet-colored hair from her shoulder with a slim brown hand and assumed a neutral expression. Sabar recalled that her host, Kapa, hailed from the same world as Elu.

On Selmak’s right sat Geta. Sabar found in his host Tiran’s broad, lined countenance a familiar warmth. Geta was of his own Brood, and an avid player of _p’ol_ , a three-dimensional strategy game the Tok’ra often played for amusement. He and Sabar had shared many a match in the centuries before the founding of the Tok’bel. The two still played when they could on Sabar’s rare visits to his more traditional siblings, although it had now been nearly twenty years since the last time they’d found the opportunity to do so. Cadogan and Tiran knew each other well enough from these encounters to be on friendly terms, and Sabar was gratified to see a welcoming face on the Council for both their sakes, for he knew that Geta found nothing particularly objectionable in his approach to the problem of the Goa’uld despite its being at odds with official Tok’ra methods.

An aged feminine form occupied the seat next to Geta’s. The long ivory braid over one shoulder bore a yellowish cast, mute evidence of the fact that its owner had once had fiery red hair. Sabar blinked as his mind’s eye overlaid the memory of the younger woman on the visage of the old: Lena, host to Anise since his own time with Langen, Berwyn’s predecessor. When he’d visited several years ago, he’d heard that Anise was still engaged in scientific study at a Tok’ra outpost far to spinward along the galaxy’s R’yn arm, probably related to her quest for the semi-mythical Atoniek and their lost technology which she hoped might offer some advantage against the Goa’uld. To find her not only here at Rak’lar but also filling a Council position was something of a shock. Anise had previously shown no interest in a Council seat, and Sabar wondered what — or who — had persuaded her to change her mind.

His musings on that topic were interrupted by Garshaw, who sat across from Anise. {“Sabar. So good of you to grace us with your presence.”} The words fairly dripped sarcasm.

Pushing back his annoyance, Sabar executed a slight bow in the Councilor’s direction and adopted his most diplomatic tone. {“The Council has requested my attendance and I am happy to be of whatever assistance I can, Garshaw.”}

Garshaw regarded him from beneath raised brows, but offered no further response as Sabar made his way to the end of the table and adopted the posture of patient waiting traditional for those called to speak before the Council at its pleasure. His internal mood was anything but patient, however, as apprehension warred with curiosity over precisely what it was that his siblings desired of him.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. {“Sabar, welcome,”} intoned Odran. {“You have been called before us to offer your opinion on the feasibility of an idea raised by one of our operatives. The Council is aware that you have… specialized experience with the subject under consideration, and we would hear your evidence either for or against the probable success of what has been suggested.”}

 _All of which sounds to me like nothing more than a roundabout way of asking you how goes our work against Bel,_ Cadogan commented silently.

Sabar groaned inwardly. {Yes, and if I answer that we’re having success, I’ll be expected to explain why he still holds power over all five worlds in his domain. If I answer that it’s slow going, then I’ll be asked to justify the continuation of our efforts.}

 _In other words, Ithel’s dilemma,_ Cadogan mused, citing an old Pridanic folktale regarding a young warrior whose chieftain had once set him a series of seemingly conflicting challenges in an effort to test the young man’s ability to discern the best way of addressing multiple objectives simultaneously.

{Something like that, yes.}

Sabar met Odran’s gaze and spoke aloud. {“It is my pleasure to offer whatever insight I may have, Supreme Councilor,”} he said diplomatically. {“I am only pleased that my visit coincides with your need. What is it that you require?”}

Per’sus spoke up. {“According to certain of our field operatives”} — he glanced at Jolinar and Lantash — {“the situations on several of Ra’s worlds may be ripe for rebellion by the humans living there. It appears that there are a number of underground groups among these humans, groups who believe that their Goa’uld overlords are not in fact gods, and who have agitated — quietly, you understand — for throwing off the yoke of slavery. We have sent occasional operatives to monitor things among the human populations as well as sending agents among the Goa’uld themselves as is our more normal way, and what we have learned from these observations of the humans themselves suggests that the present unrest may one day erupt into action. Perhaps not for many years, or even decades, but it is possible at some point.”}

Sabar inclined his head. {“I find this not at all unsurprising, Councilor Per’sus, but what is it you would ask of me? I have not been involved with any of these observations, nor with any direct mission for the Tok’ra in quite some time.”}

Odran took up the thread of the conversation again. {“We are well aware of this, Sabar. Nevertheless, we are also well aware that you do have direct experience with human rebellions against the Goa’uld. Certain operatives and also certain members of this Council have put forth the idea that it might be of value to encourage these rebel elements and possibly even to aid them rather than ignoring them and concentrating solely on the Goa’uld themselves. Given that you are currently available, the suggestion was made that we might do well to consult with you regarding your experiences in aiding the rebel group with whom you and your friends have allied themselves.”}

{I wonder whose “suggestion” this was?} Sabar mused silently. He glanced up and down the table, his gaze moving from face to face. Odran’s expression was open, devoid of any apparent guile; Selmak’s reserved and impassive. Sabar read in Geta’s eyes a look of support; not unsurprising given their friendship. Anise was hard to read, but at least did not exhibit any outward displeasure with the idea that Odran had voiced. Garshaw wore the look of a predatory creature eyeing its next meal, while Delek simply frowned. Sindel’s expression was neutral, and Per’sus blinked calmly and nodded slightly as Sabar met his eyes. {Garshaw is behind this, I’ll wager. Or maybe Delek. Possibly both.}

 _Tread carefully,_ cautioned Cadogan.

Sabar drew a deep breath, marshaling his thoughts. {“By the Council’s leave,”} he began, {“I assume you are all well acquainted with my personal philosophy on this matter, and I will therefore dispense with explaining it. As to my direct experience, let me just say that humans are amazingly capable when encouraged, and will work as hard and fight as bravely as any Tok’ra has ever done when facing the Goa’uld and their Jaffa. I need not remind you that the Tau’ri themselves, ancestors to the humans on all Goa’uld worlds, succeeded in ousting Ra from their homeworld millennia ago and burying the _chappa’ai_ that existed in the land from which he had ruled.”}

He drew breath to go on, but was interrupted by Delek. {“Yes, yes, we’re all aware of that, Sabar. But the humans currently under Goa’uld rule have had their spirits broken by thousands of years under that domination. Don’t you think that might affect things?”}

Sabar shook his head. {“Then explain to me, Councilor Delek, the existence of those other worlds whose human populations did succeed in driving the out the Goa’uld who ruled them and obtaining freedom?”}

Delek’s face twisted. {“They are few and far between, and you know that as well as I. Furthermore, most of them only remained free by burying their _chappa’ai_ for centuries if not longer. Are you suggesting that the humans on all of Ra’s worlds would or should do likewise?”}

{“Perhaps not. In fact, it would be preferable for them to maintain the devices and utilize them to their own benefit, just as the people of Bel’s domain managed to do during the five hundred years of freedom they enjoyed during Bel’s absence.”} Sabar carefully avoided mentioning the System Lord’s return, which he had long suspected might have been due to some Tok’ra machination in another Goa’uld’s domain having repercussions that went beyond its own worlds. No need to make an already-charged situation even more volatile. {“The problem with that, of course, is that the Goa’uld would be able to use the _chappa’ai_ as a means to repeatedly invade and attack unless defensive measures were put in place. That would be one area where the Tok’ra could be of assistance, in terms of helping to provide defensive technology and training.”}

{“At an inordinately high risk!”} Delek’s expression contorted further.

{“There is a risk inherent in everything, Delek, including the Tok’ra’s present activities,”} Sabar told him. {“In return, however, we would be able to obtain access to the resources of those worlds, resources which would be denied to the Goa’uld while benefitting both the Tok’ra and the people whose hard work produced the items. Naquadah, for one thing, and other metals, as well as foodstuffs and other items. We would also gain additional sources for willing hosts, as has been the case for my own group in Bel’s domain. Many of the Tok’bel have blended with hosts from among the peoples of Bel’s worlds. My own host Cadogan, whom you see here before you, is from Tir Awyr, one of Bel’s planets. When we finally succeed in freeing his world and her sisters, the Tok’bel — and by extension, the Tok’ra — have been promised access to the resources available there. In the meantime, of course, we do skim off what we can steal from the output of mines and fields without alerting Bel to that fact, and use it in the service of the rebellion.”}

{“So you’re saying that we should offer to aid human rebels against the Goa’uld and armies of Jaffa in exchange for the use of resources and a source of hosts if — _if,_  mind you — such rebellions prove successful?”} The speaker was Garshaw this time. {“Need I remind you, Sabar, that the Goa’uld also have fleets of ships, and vast numbers of _ger’tak,_  in addition to thousands upon thousands of Jaffa warriors and a ready supply of naquadah to power their weapons?”}

{“I am well aware of that, Councilor Garshaw,”} replied Sabar, allowing none of the irritation he felt to show in his voice. {“However, need I remind _you_ that we — the Tok’ra as a whole, that is — are currently fighting a clandestine war of attrition in which virtually the only attrition occurring is on our own side?”} Without a queen to produce additional larvae, the Tok’ra were doomed to extinction in no more than another two millennia, and they all knew it. {“At some point, we will cease to exist, and if we have neither defeated the Goa’uld nor Turned them from their evil ways by that point, who will be left to fight them with all the understanding that we possess about them?”}

He glanced around the table again, noting the sober looks upon the faces of the assembled Councilors. The reminder of their species’ mortality was the one thing that might unite them, although there was no telling for how long. {“That is why I believe that it may well be in our best interests to take more direct action against them, or at the very least to encourage and aid those humans who are willing to do so. If the Tok’ra are to die out as a group before the Goa’uld threat has been neutralized or the tide at least turned in that direction, then does it really matter whether that happens a hundred years from now or a thousand? On the other hand, if through fighting them by more direct means we are able to defeat them sooner even at the cost of some Tok’ra lives… Well, have we not always vowed to give our lives if need be, in order to secure the Goa’uld’s defeat? In the worst case, we will at least be giving them in a worthy cause.”}

{“Perhaps you are eager to give your life, Sabar,”} Delek grumbled, {“but others of us are not so eager.”}

 _And is that why he has abandoned field duty to sit on the Council?_ There was scorn in Cadogan’s mental tone.

{Even I won’t ask that question,} returned Sabar silently.

Geta spoke up. {“Delek, I don’t believe that is what Sabar has in mind, although the logic of his thinking here is flawless. None of us is going to live forever; and without resorting to the sarcophagus — which you know as well as I won’t happen — we won’t even last as long as many of the current crop of Goa’uld. We have no queen to breed a further generation of Tok’ra, and therefore we ourselves are likely all that stands between the Goa’uld and complete domination of the galaxy. Sabar has made a crucial point, I think.”}

Across from Geta, Sindel nodded, turning to fix Delek with her dark gaze. {“Geta is right. I cannot fault Sabar’s thinking in this matter either.”}

{“Nor can I,”} agreed Per’sus. Delek glanced from one to the other of the colleagues flanking him, and his scowl deepened.

Selmak took this opportunity to comment. {“I do understand the reasoning behind it, but to risk more of the Goa’uld’s ire than we currently do by taking an active role… I can’t be certain we could justify the risk to our operatives, nor to our movement and species as a whole.”}

Anise cleared her throat. {“I don’t really see how the risk would be that much greater,”} she said. {“We already routinely send operatives deep undercover into the heart of Goa’uld society, often placing them close to the System Lords themselves. Risk is part of the equation, and it isn’t as if we haven’t lost some of our number that way. Yet often all they are really able to do is report on the deployment of resources and troops, or upon the details of this or that internecine power struggle, which we then do our best to exploit. And after doing this for two millennia, have we really accomplished so much that we can call our work a resounding success?”}

{“Anise,”} began Garshaw. {“I know that you have been out of the main thrust of our activities for several decades while you pursue your research, but even you must admit that — ”}

Anise cut her off, an act of temerity surprising in a junior Councilor. Then again, Sabar reflected, Anise was known for her boldness of character. {“Councilor Garshaw, with all due respect, I am well aware of what can happen when the Tok’ra do in fact aid humans directly, even if doing so was unplanned. You seem to have forgotten that Lena, my own host, comes from a world where the human population successfully freed itself from Goa’uld rule, with the help and advice of Tok’ra operatives.”}

{“Who were, if I recall correctly, only on that planet through bad luck,”} Garshaw rejoined. {“And even so, the only reason Lena’s people remained free was because their former overlord was too busy trying to fend off rival Goa’uld intent on assassinating him and taking over his entire territory.”}

{“If I may…”} Sabar spoke the words with only slightly more volume than he’d used previously, but all eight heads turned toward him as he continued, {“The one thing that we have proven ourselves experts at is fomenting unrest within the Goa’uld hierarchy, no? With the proper words here and there, in the proper ears and with the proper timing, we’ve managed to pit this or that underling against his overlord, or to exploit the tendencies of certain Goa’uld to engage in plotting against others. We take advantage where we find it, and we’ve created some situations ourselves. It surely seems to me that if we were to place events in motion that were timed in such a way as to distract attention and draw resources away from quelling human rebellions and direct them into pitting Goa’uld against Goa’uld at just the right time to benefit any such rebels, that might prove useful.”}

 _Moccas and Bel,_ said Cadogan.

{Exactly,} Sabar replied silently.

Both Garshaw and Delek opened their mouths to speak, only to close them again when Odran’s voice rose above the gathered assembly. {“There is merit in that thinking, Sabar, and rest assured that it will be taken into consideration. For now, however, the Council will need time to deliberate upon the subject. I’ve been told that any possible rebellion on any of the planets where such a possibility has been detected is far from imminent, and we therefore do have time to determine the proper course of action. It was suggested to me by some of those assembled here that the Council might benefit from hearing from someone with your direct experience, and once I became aware that you were visiting among us, I thought it wise to avail ourselves of the opportunity.”}

Sabar bowed slightly in the Supreme High Councilor’s direction. {“I am only too happy to offer what assistance I may.”}

 _Remarkable. You said that with a straight face,_ commented his host.

{Hush, or I won’t be able to keep it that way.}

Selmak exchanged a look with Odran, then fixed her gaze on Sabar. {“Tell me, have the Tok’bel lost any of their number in their time aiding the human rebels in Bel’s domain?”}

Sabar had been expecting the question. Selmak already knew the answer, of course, but she obviously intended the response to sway the opinions of the various Councilors present. {“We have lost three of our number, including my own mate Larenan. As you are well aware.”}

{“And do you consider their sacrifice worthy of the objective — an objective you still have not achieved after more than a century of effort?”} Selmak watched his face closely, not blinking.

A moment’s silence permitted Sabar to retain his composure. When he spoke, his voice was level and calm, although he was aware that his host must surely know what that effort cost him.

{“Councilor Selmak, many of the Tok’ra’s operations play out over many decades and occasionally even centuries. It is not so different for humans, even though their lives are short. Wheels once set in motion may well take time to turn, and even longer if great care is needed in steering their course. The rebels in Bel’s domain must work with the resources that they have, as must we who assist them. The Tok’bel have operatives in Bel’s own hierarchy, and we do little without proper intelligence. Likewise, the human rebels — the _Am Rhyddid_ , to use their name in the language of my host’s people, among whom the movement had its beginning — do little that is of a precipitous nature. They are as aware as we that in order to do a thing right, it is sometimes necessary to do it slowly and with exceeding caution. But even slow and careful action is preferable to little or no action, and we are making progress. As to whether or not what success we have so far achieved was worth the sacrifice of my mate and our colleagues, I am not the only one to judge. I should perhaps let my host address you, as Larenan’s host at the time of her death was his own wife, Menna.”}

 _You want_ me _to address the Council?_

{Only if you are willing, Cadogan. But it might have a positive impact. I’m just sorry to have brought it up without asking you ahead of time.}

_No, no; it’s all right._

Odran bowed his head a fraction in Sabar’s direction, a gesture Sabar understood as respect for his host. {“If your host wishes to speak, he is most welcome to do so. The decision is his, naturally.”}

_I’ll speak to them._

Sabar bowed his head and closed his eyes for a second, ceding control. Cadogan lifted his head a moment later, opening his eyes and looking around at the assembled Councilors before addressing Odran directly.

“Thank you, Supreme Councilor.” He looked up and down the table again, meeting each Tok’ra’s gaze in turn. “For those of you who do not know me, I am Cadogan ap Cynan, leader of the human freedom fighters against Bel. By our tradition, I hold this rank courtesy of my status as Sabar’s host, although I spent over three decades in the service of the _Am Rhyddid_ prior to our blending and ranked among its senior officers. Both before becoming his host and since that time, I have personally lost family members and friends to Bel’s Jaffa and on missions for the rebellion. My entire family is involved in the movement, and would be even if we had no outside assistance. However, because of the Tok’bel, we have enjoyed greater success and fewer losses than we would otherwise.”

He paused, and Sabar could sense him weighing his next words. “My own ancestors were among those who founded the _Am Rhyddid_ , long before Sabar and the others came to aid us. Berwyn, my kinsman, was from a family who had been involved in the movement, and during his own years as a personal slave in Bel’s own court, he saw much that fired him even further with the desire to wrest his own world and her sisters from Goa’uld enslavement and control. When Sabar, on an undercover mission, encountered him and was later able to free him on another world far from home, Bel was grateful for the existence of the Tok’ra and for Sabar’s kindness. Yet he never forgot his homeworld and his kin, and although he offered himself as host out of sheer gratitude for his freedom and that of several of his fellows, once blended he discovered Sabar to be very much a kindred spirit.”

Cadogan paused again and cleared his throat. “Know that Sabar made his own choice to aid the _Am Rhyddid_ directly, and to form the Tok’bel. In the same way, my wife made her own choice to blend with Larenan many decades later, after I became Sabar’s host. We all understand the risks involved, and at least for those of us who are human, we understand that full success may not come within our lifetimes. This would have been true in any case, but with the Tok’bel’s help we have that much greater a chance of success eventually. We would fight the Goa’uld regardless, and with everything that we have or are, just as we know that you Tok’ra oppose the Goa’uld with every ounce of volition you possess. And while we grieve for our dead, we grieve just as much over lost Tok’bel or Tok’ra, for we understand that the loss of even one of your number reduces your people in a way that it does not reduce ours. Yet I can say with every assurance that both Menna and Larenan took their risks willingly, and gave their lives willingly to further the cause of our own freedom and to do whatever small part they could in breaking the power of the Goa’uld. I cannot speak for any others, but I will say also for myself that I would willingly give my own life to achieve that objective as well.”

Selmak regarded him for a long moment. {“A pretty speech,”} she said at length. {“And a stirring one; make no mistake. But you at least have offspring, descendants who would be left to carry on your line in your absence.”}

Cadogan shook his head solemnly. “No, Councilor, I regret to say that I do not. Kinfolk, yes; but no progeny. At one time I had a daughter and two sons, but all three were lost to Bel and his depredations upon my people. My daughter and my eldest son were active in the _Am Rhyddid_ , as I am, and gave their lives in the course of that service without either having yet produced children of their own. The third was taken from us in his seventeenth year, and made host to one of Bel’s rare offspring by Zara, his queen.”

Cadogan drew a deep breath, and Sabar felt his host’s throat tighten as he prepared his next words. “I was forced to kill him myself when we later found him, or rather the Goa’uld who possessed him, in charge of a Jaffa force we encountered in the course of a raid. When your own son’s hand raises a weapon against you… when his mouth speaks words threatening you with death in the name of a false god, and you must take his life for the sake of your other kin and your comrades, and then destroy even his corpse with your weapon’s third blast, lest he be revived and his torment continued… No, there is no sacrifice too great if it counters the Goa’uld and frees my people — or anyone’s people — from their control. At least not in my mind. Nor in Menna’s, who was his mother.”

Cadogan had ground out these last words as though he were chewing on gravel. The Council chamber grew silent as Sabar lent what support he could to calm his host’s racing pulse and agitated mind. {I am sorry I asked you to speak to them,} he offered silently.

_Why? Because I felt that I must tell them the reason why I fight?_

Sabar could feel Cadogan willing himself to calmness, and redoubled his efforts to help. {That was not easy for you, my friend,} he said as he labored to adjust his host’s brain chemistry.

_No, but it was necessary. Oftentimes what is necessary is not easy, and what is not easy is nevertheless necessary. I accepted that long ago, Sabar. This is no different. And you can stop twiddling about; I’ll be all right in a moment._

Sabar detected the affection behind the thought. {If you insist.} Having done what he could, he subsided, allowing his host’s system to take over.

At the far end of the table, Odran stood and bowed his head in their direction, a rare show of respect from the Supreme High Councilor to a host for the host’s own sake. {“Cadogan ap Cynan of the _Am Rhyddid_ , I grieve for your loss, as does Rugar, my host. And I thank you for having the courage to tell your tale. I am certain we will all bear it in mind as we consider what has been said here today, and the decisions we must make regarding our own future course of action.”} He looked around pointedly at the other Councilors. {“Regardless of the course to which those deliberations lead us, know that your words have been heard and will be valued.”}

Cadogan squared his shoulders. “Thank you, Supreme Councilor. That knowledge is appreciated.” He bowed his head, giving over control to Sabar once more.

Sabar looked up, meeting Odran’s eyes. {“I thank you as well. Cadogan does not often speak of his youngest child to anyone even among his own kin, let alone to others. You listened with respect.”}

Odran nodded. {“I can do no less, Sabar. It is easy to forget the sacrifices of those who are not our own, and humbling to be reminded of them.”} The Supreme Councilor glanced at his seven colleagues ranged about the table. Sabar knew that each was likely processing what he or she had heard, albeit probably not along uniform lines.

His own gaze went to Jolinar and Lantash, standing quietly against the wall beyond the table. Both were watching him, and he could see the concern in their expressions.

When Odran spoke again, it was once more in the firm tone of authority. {“If no one has further questions for Sabar”} — another look around the table, where no one spoke — {“then this meeting is adjourned.”} He strode toward the doorway, clasping Sabar’s shoulder briefly as he passed, and left the room.

The other Councilors rose, most of them silently, and began making their way from the chamber. Delek and Garshaw shot unfathomable looks in Sabar’s direction as they exited, but neither spoke. Anise gave him a look of sympathy that he knew was intended for Cadogan, and he nodded once in acknowledgement.

Geta came to stand beside him. {“In all these years, to have never known Cadogan’s story,”} he said quietly. {“Your host is a strong man.”}

{“That he is, my friend. How have you been? The past two times I was here, you were away on missions of your own.”}

Geta smiled. {“I’ve been well enough, though I’ve been disappointed each time I learned that I’d missed your visit. Will you be staying any longer among us, or do you need to get back quickly?”}

{“I take it you have a yearning to lose at _p’ol_?”} Sabar chuckled, knowing that Cadogan enjoyed the game as much as he did. A bit of diversion before they returned home might be the proper antidote to what he’d just put his host through.

{“If I recall correctly, this would be a rematch from last time. You owe me a victory.”}

{“We shall see about that,”} Sabar told him, just as Jolinar and Lantash joined them.

Martouf, apparently in control at the moment, spoke first. “I’m sorry you had to do that, Cadogan. Please accept my sympathies.”

Ducking his head, Sabar ceded control to his host for a moment. “It’s all right, Martouf. Thank you.” Cadogan quickly returned control to Sabar.

{“Do you have to leave soon, or will you be staying longer?”} asked Jolinar.

{“I have to return to Caer Ynys tomorrow, but this evening I will remain. Geta and I are going to play _p’ol,_ but perhaps we can all have dinner first? And where has Remir gotten to? He ought to join us, and Nasara as well.”} There was no telling when he might next see his friends, and Sabar wanted to enjoy what he could of his time among them.

The little group moved toward the doorway, the Councilors having all left. {“I’ll go and find Remir and Nasara,”} said Lantash, having taken over from Martouf. {“And tomorrow when you leave, we will all walk with you to the _chappa’ai_. It’s a cold journey, and you needn’t make it alone.”}

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

> _****Author's Note:**** I've been contacted by several readers with questions regarding Sabar's statement that he feels the Tok'ra will face extinction 'soon', and I feel that I ought perhaps to clarify some details for the curious:  
> _
> 
> _Sabar's reference to extinction wasn't about the Tok'ra being killed off by the Goa'uld, although that type of attrition forms a part of his thinking. I realize that some fans believe that Tok'ra and Goa'uld symbiotes have natural lifespans of up to 10,000 years and that the use of a sarcophagus is only to extend the life of the host, rather than of the symbiote. I must admit that I don't see any evidence in canon for a 10,000 year lifespan for symbiotes who don't use sarcophagi, and I believe the sarcophagus prolongs the life of both the symbiote and the host (although eventually it reaches the point where it can't quite do the job). After all, symbiotes can take new hosts as needed, so it seems to me that going to all the trouble of developing sarcophagus technology solely to extend the host's lifetime would have been regarded as a waste of effort by the Goa'uld. Hence my belief that it is beneficial to both entities. That may simply be my personal view on things; I don't know. But it's what I'm using.  
> _
> 
> _Personally, I see the sarcophagus as having been invented around 5,500 to 6,000 years ago or more, but that may just be me. Call it artistic license, if that helps. In fact, my entire take on the lifespans of Tok'ra and Goa'uld may certainly be chalked up to that if you wish. I wouldn't be the first fanfic writer to take liberties now and again with either canon or speculative material for the sake of a good story or an important plot point! Even the show's own writers were known to do that._
> 
> _That brings us to the question of just what constitutes a symbiote's 'natural' lifespan, without the aid of a sarcophagus:_
> 
> _To a great extent, I base my interpretation of the Tok'ra on the information in Katherine Ritter's Lexicon at RDA dot com, while admittedly tweaking it a bit. If the Tok'ra were first spawned somewhat over 2,000 years ago, as is stated there, and we're told that Selmak was dying (ostensibly) of old age not too many years after we first met the Tok'ra, then that speaks to a natural symbiote lifespan of far less than ten thousand years. Granted, I do pick and choose, as I put a natural symbiote lifespan at somewhere between 3,500 and 4,000 years in my particular version of the Gateverse, making Sabar a 'middle-aged' Tok'ra at just over 2,000 years of age himself, and as a result I won't be playing with the idea of Selmak being close to death. Canon makes her "one of the oldest" Tok'ra; therefore I make her a member of the First Brood, but in my 'verse that means she was spawned roughly 2,600 years ago, give or take a bit. This would place her in late middle age, maybe, but far short of elderly._
> 
> _According to some of my other research, there actually was a goddess named Egeria who was worshipped by the Romans, and her legend places her on Earth around 700 BC. The legend says she was wise and taught Numa Pompilius, the 2nd king of Rome, to be a wise ruler. I'm interpreting that as the Goa'uld Egeria beginning to evidence her own change in philosophy and trying to quietly help humans instead of subjugating them. So in my Gateverse, her first brood of Tok'ra were spawned sometime between 700 and 650 AD, with the last brood coming not long before her disappearance, which I've arbitrarily placed sometime in the first century AD... oddly enough, coinciding with Rome expanding its empire as far west as the British Isles. (I am reminded by fellow author and Tok'ra enthusiast Roeskva that Roman mythology gives Egeria's origin as among the_ Camanae _, water nymphs who could not leave their pond unless they took human form. Considering that the Goa'uld were initially an aquatic species and still begin their lives in that form before eventually moving to human hosts, this seems eminently fitting. Perhaps even more so given that Egeria was a queen, and therefore may well have spent even more time in her aquatic state due to the necessities of spawning her Tok'ra offspring.)_
> 
> _Which brings us to Sabar himself. He was probably spawned sometime around 150 BC, give or take a century. He knows the youngest of his siblings won't last beyond another two millennia (again, give or take a century or so) and he is of course thinking in Tok'ra and Goa'uld time, meaning that this is 'soon'. Thus he feels that time is very limited for them to defeat the Goa'uld, because it has to either happen within his own lifetime or those of his youngest siblings. He's aware of his own mortality, as some of us tend to become when we are in middle age! Frank is like that too, and I just might be exploring that theme a bit through this story; I was 46 when I began writing it, the same age as Frank was when he fell through the Stargate. Anyway, this awareness gives Sabar a sense of urgency that is a crucial driver for his whole reasoning behind forming the Tok'bel and putting his beliefs into practice._
> 
> _Be advised that to a large extent I am purposely writing this story as though it had been written prior to the airing of Season 6, with a few exceptions for concepts that were introduced later that I find useful. Just call it a quirk, some of which arises from my not really having enjoyed most of the show's later material and not really having watched much beyond the early episodes of Season 7, or at most having only seen a single airing of the later episodes that I did watch._
> 
> _One more thing: Obviously, right now the story is in a time prior to SG-1's first contact with the Tok'ra. I am actually building a somewhat alternate universe for the By Honor Bound series in which things will happen a bit differently than they did in canon as regards the effects of a Tau'ri-Tok'ra alliance. This will be due in large part to Frank's actions in helping the Tok'bel, which will alter certain attitudes and events slightly. I think you'll enjoy the results._
> 
> _-Ana_


	46. Gadeyrn

_**Author's Note:** After publishing the previous chapter, "Gauntlet", I received messages from some readers who had questions about Sabar's concern regarding the potential extinction of the Tok'ra. After discussing this, it occurred to me that I ought to perhaps explain my particular take on the Tok'ra as to their lifespan, the time of their origin, and the effect these things have upon Sabar's point of view and his personal philosophy. If you would like to read this explanation and understand my view of the Tok'ra more fully, simply return to Chapter 45 and scroll to the bottom, where you will find these things explained in the Author's Note I added after the chapter was initially published._

_And now, on with_ this _chapter:  
_

  


  


_Above our life we love a steadfast friend._ — Christopher Marlowe

  


  


Major Louis Ferretti led SG-2 down the ramp from the Stargate as the wormhole _sizzle-whoosh_ ed out of existence behind them and the new trinium-enhanced iris slid shut, its segments interlocking like the petals of some strange metallic flower.

General Hammond met them at the foot of the ramp. "Gentlemen, did you find anything of value or interest on P4X-293?"

Ferretti gave him a crooked grin. "That's one crazy place, sir. About a mile from the gate there's this big field of something that looks almost exactly like grass, except it's speckled with pink. Every blade, bright green and this wild, almost neon pink. Weirdest thing I've seen yet, I think, at least as vegetation goes."

Hammond shook his head, a trace of humor in his expression. "I trust you brought back samples for the botanists to study. You and your men report to Dr. Fraiser and then get cleaned up and changed. We'll debrief in one hour."

After the standard post-mission examination by the SGC's chief medical officer and her staff, Ferretti made his way to the officer's locker room and prepared to shower. Stepping under the spray, he sighed as he allowed the hot water to relax shoulders tense and tired from carrying a pack. That speckled grass had actually been kind of pretty, he mused. It was also one of the most notable things about the planet they'd visited. Odd-colored flora, some small to medium fauna in vaguely reptilian forms, and not a human being in sight. Truth be told, it had been one of the quieter missions his team had drawn lately, and he hadn't minded the respite.

Or at least he wouldn't have, if not for the fact that he'd spent the entire time wishing he and his men, along with SG-1, could instead have been combing P2A-870 for Frank Cromwell.

SG-2's debrief went quickly and afterward, the major found himself alone with Hammond in the conference room. The general was gathering pages, tapping their edges against the table to align them before placing them into the folder in front of him. He looked up as Ferretti cleared his throat.

"Something on your mind, Major?"

Ferretti nodded. "Yes, sir. What's the situation with Colonel Cromwell? Has the weather cleared on P2A-870?"

A shadow passed across the general's eyes, almost too quickly to be noticed — but then again, Ferretti noticed everything. "No, Major. We queried the MALP again half an hour before your return, and the storms are still too intense to risk sending any personnel through the gate."

"Damn." Hammond's eyebrows rose a fraction as Ferretti swore. "Sorry, general. I was just hoping that it was possible to send a team to look for the colonel."

Hammond nodded. "I understand. Major, as I said at the end of this debrief, SG-2 is on stand-down for forty-eight hours. However, if you and your men are willing to remain on base or otherwise closely available, the mission to accompany SG-1 on the search when the weather does clear is yours."

"I'll go and let them know, sir. Thank you." Ferretti headed for the door.

"Major?"

He paused and turned to find Hammond eyeing him. "Thank _you_ , Major. Colonel O'Neill is going to need all the help he can get."

Reading the general's deeper meaning, Ferretti nodded again. "Understood, sir."

  


***

  


A light snow had fallen overnight, adding a thin layer of fluff to the two inches already accumulated on the ground. True winter weather had arrived in Llanavon a week previously, and the thatched rooftops of the newer cottages and outbuildings bore a frosty coating. Bennaeth Bod's tiled roof still warmed enough in the afternoon sunshine to shed its load before evening, as did the shingled roof of the cottage that Cromwell shared with Tesni.

At the first snowfall, the colonel's thoughts had turned to the fact that this would be his second winter in Tir Awyr. Although he'd never dreamed at the time of his arrival that he would remain on the planet this long, he could honestly say he wasn't at all sorry to be here. _Funny how much difference a little time can make,_ he mused as he stepped out onto the cottage's porch, drawing on a pair of warm woolen gloves.

A dun-colored shape wriggled and bounced around his feet, panting and barking in excited eagerness to be off. The puppy that Cadogan had given him now accompanied him on a brisk walk about the village in the mornings before being returned to the cottage while his master went for a run. At some point the pup would be big and strong enough to keep up for the entirety of the arduous cross-country training course the colonel set himself on most days, but for now Cromwell felt a short jaunt was enough for his new charge.

Tesni followed him out of the cottage, closing the door behind them. Like her husband, she ran in the mornings as well, and often accompanied him and the pup on walks beforehand.

"Have you decided what to name him yet?" she asked, reaching down to pat the furry head that butted up against her shins.

The puppy had come to live with them eleven days ago, and still had no formal name. Each pup in Ethni's litter had borne a "whelping name" based on some physical characteristic. The irregular splotch of lighter fur just behind his right ear had earned Cromwell's pup the nickname _Blotyn_ or 'Patch'. However, the Pridani held hunting dogs in such high regard that a number of traditions surrounded their ownership. Once a pup was fully weaned and placed with a permanent owner, he or she must be given a formal name to carry into adult life. Tesni had made it clear that since the animal was a gift to her husband from her uncle, the colonel should be the one to name him. Cromwell wished to choose a name that truly suited the pup's personality — another element of the tradition. He was coming to know the dog better, but no fitting name had yet suggested itself.

"I'm still working on it," he replied, squatting to check that the pup's leash was firmly attached to the leather collar.

"Well, the poor creature can hardly remain nameless for much longer, Nye."

"I know. Give me a day or so, and I'm sure I'll come up with something. He can be 'Patch' until then. I don't think he'll come to any harm from it." Cromwell kissed his wife on the lips as the subject of their conversation wove in and out between their legs, still panting and yipping.

Several turns around the village square failed to tire the pup, who romped excitedly in the snow while wearing an expression of unmitigated joy on his fuzzy face. Cromwell and Tesni turned back toward the cottage, intending to let the dog inside and continue with their own morning routines. When they opened the door, however, Patch refused to go in. Instead he sat down at their feet, gazing up and them and whining. Tesni shook her head, chuckling.

"I guess he doesn't want to be cooped up this morning," she said, reaching for the rope leash attached to the porch rail. If he got too restless inside the cottage, Patch occasionally was allowed to spend time in the dooryard, on a lead to prevent his wandering off. The friendly pup seemed to enjoy people-watching, and many of the neighbors would stop with a kind word or a pat for him.

As Tesni bent to remove the walking leash and attach the porch lead to the pup's leather collar, he pulled away, whining again. "What's the matter, _bach_? You don't want to be on your lead and you don't want to go inside… what are we going to do with you?" She petted him between the ears, chuckling again as he suddenly lifted his muzzle to lick her face.

Cromwell looked up at the sky, gauging the weather. Heavy grey clouds blanketed the sky. They looked full of snow, and even as he watched them, fat flakes began to drift down. "Go ahead and put his walking leash back on. I suppose I can make it more of a short hike than a run today and take him with me, then turn back when he looks to be tiring. He's still small enough that I can easily carry him part of the way home if I have to."

"Are you certain that's the best idea, Nye?"

The colonel shrugged. "Sure; why not? He seems restless, so at least this'll get it out of his system. I still have training scheduled with my men this afternoon, so a half-mile or so in the woods should be enough for me this morning." Cromwell knew he tended to be restless himself if he didn't get enough physical activity, but a brisk if abbreviated hike followed up by an hour or so of PT with the Black Wolves later in the day should be sufficient. One or two of his men might even benefit from the extra intensity he was likely to visit upon the team in an effort to compensate, he thought mischievously.

Tesni smiled at him. "All right, then. The two of you have fun; I'll see you back here in a while."

  


The puppy surprised Cromwell, who had purposely started out at a slower than normal pace to make sure that Patch could keep up with him. It soon appeared he needn't have worried. Even when he broke into a jog, the pup ran at his side, outsized paws churning the snow and tongue lolling. The colonel knew from talking to Cadogan that these hounds were bred for speed, strength and stamina, but even so he was impressed by the capabilities of one so young. When he paused to drink from the flask of water he carried on his belt and give his companion a chance to rest, Patch ate a couple mouthfuls of snow and then sat down at his feet, panting through a doggy grin that seemed to say, 'Hey, let's go!'

Suddenly, the puppy's head turned and his expression altered. With hackles up and a low growl issuing from his throat, he stared off into the trees.

The colonel followed the pup's gaze. Perhaps thirty feet away at roughly three o'clock, a grey shape was visible through the snowy forest. A wolf stood there, watching the two of them.

Cromwell hadn't yet encountered a wolf on Tir Awyr, though he'd been told they were present. Cadogan himself had explained that the hounds his family owned belonged to stock traditionally used both for hunting the ubiquitous deer and guarding against the much rarer wolves. Indeed, the colonel had encountered wolfhounds and deerhounds on Earth, and the Ethni's breed looked to be somewhere between the two. Apparently instinct ran strong in them, for this young pup was already reacting to the presence of his ancestral foe.

Of course, a thirty-pound, twelve-week old deerhound puppy, no matter how brave, was hardly a match for a wolf. _And neither am I,_ thought Cromwell. He carried no weapon save a utility knife — a rather largish one, but nevertheless, not something he'd want to have to defend himself with against a possibly aggressive wild canine. According to Llanavon's residents, wolf incursions were incredibly rare this close to the village itself. Indeed, it was something that happened fewer than once in every fifteen or twenty years, which was why Cromwell and his neighbors didn't feel it necessary to arm themselves against such creatures when going for a walk or a run within a mile or two radius of home.

Right now, however, he wished mightily that he had the sidearm he'd left light-years away on Earth.

The wolf remained still, a grey shadow in the light filtered through leafless trees and falling snow from the overcast sky. Cromwell could see its nose lift and twitch, sniffing the air. As the three of them stood rooted to the spot, the wind shifted over their frozen tableau, placing the wolf downwind and carrying their scent toward it. Patch still growled, and the colonel worried that this might incite the wolf.

"Shhh…" he hissed, but the pup paid him no heed.

A rustling came from a thicket off to Cromwell's eleven. A deer broke cover and bolted off through the trees away from both trail and wolf, heading deeper into the forest. The wolf turned and gave chase, disappearing into the trees. A shiver ran down the colonel's spine as he heard the hunting cries of not just one, but at least three wolves moving away in the direction the deer had taken.

A moment later, he reached down and scooped up the puppy. "Come on, _bach_. It's time we went home."

On the walk back to the village, the colonel's senses were heightened. Not that he ever really tuned out his surroundings; twenty-odd years spent honing a warrior's instincts made that impossible. But until now, he'd felt nearly as safe on these trails as he did in his own cottage. At the moment, however, he was fully alert to each small sound from the forest. So, clearly, was the pup he carried, who kept sniffing the air and whining softly. After a few minutes, he set Patch back down on the trail and resumed the brisk walking pace he'd adopted. The pup trotted at his side, still alert for danger. _Idris, Cadogan and Nenniaw need to know of this,_ thought Cromwell. _They'll want to do something about the wolves, if they're coming in this close to the village and the fields. I don't mind them if they keep their distance, but we can't risk losing livestock, or worse._

A wave of relief flooded him as they entered the cottage to find Tesni already there, gathering up her basket for a trip to the baths. Although he'd scarcely dared admit it to himself, he'd worried about his wife's safety, knowing that her own preferred running trail took her not far from where they'd encountered the wolves.

She looked up as he shut the door and began to strip off his gloves. "Nye, did you hear anything unusual in the forest?"

"You mean the wolves? I didn't just hear them; I saw one at fairly close range. Actually, this little one noticed it before I did. He got his back up and started growling for all he was worth." Cromwell scratched behind the pup's ears with an ungloved hand. "I think I'm going to go have a talk with your brother and Nenniaw. Cadogan too, when he gets back. I don't like the thought of wolves this close to the village. Not the four-legged variety, at any rate."

"Yes, we'll definitely have to do something about them." Tesni set her basket down on the table and reached for her cloak, pausing to kiss her husband. "It sounds like our little friend here is going to be a good hunter when he grows up." Shrugging into the cloak, she said, "Gather your things and you can walk with me to the baths."

  


Cromwell had hoped to find Idris or Nenniaw in the baths, but neither was present when he arrived. He passed a few moments talking with Armagil, Issui and Coll, but overall he gave abbreviated attention to his ablutions and left the baths again in short order — clean, dressed and freshly-shaved, but with much on his mind. There would be time to take a relaxing hot soak after he'd conferred with Idris and Nenniaw and then led his team through their scheduled training session. Today, he might hold it in the square… or perhaps his Wolves might be just the men to deal with their four-legged namesakes, and would have their exercises by more productive means.

He found Idris at Bennaeth Bod, in the smaller first-floor study that served as the chieftain's own workspace. Quickly apprising him of the events of his morning run, Cromwell added, "I'll be honest, this is the first time I've been that close to a wolf in the wild."

Idris looked at him curiously. "'In the wild'? Where else would you expect to find wolves, Neirin?"

 _Shit._ The colonel realized he'd spoken without thinking. Of course all wolves would live in the wild here, and likely on any of the Five Worlds. The concept of a zoo was so alien that Pridanic had no word for it.

He cast about for some way to explain his remark. "Sorry; what I meant to say is that I've never been around a live purebred wolf. My world does have some dogs that are wolf crosses, and I've met one or two of those, but they're at least somewhat tame."

This answer seemed to satisfy his brother-in-law. "Ah, I see. I know that does happen from time to time, although I've never personally encountered one. I imagine they're very fierce, aren't they?"

Cromwell nodded. "They can be, yes." He sipped from the cup of tea Idris had poured for him, mulling over the situation. Wolves might be endangered in many places on Earth, but here the intelligent, cunning predators posed a menace to the local populace and its livelihood. While he certainly didn't begrudge the creatures their right to live the lives for which they were so beautifully adapted, he didn't relish the thought of potentially meeting them on any random journey farther than half a mile or so from Llanavon, nor of the hardworking villagers and other nearby farmers losing livestock to them. "I'm given to understand that wolves don't generally come this close to most established settlements hereabouts?"

Idris topped up both of their mugs. "No, they don't. The last time we had them this close in the area was…" He gazed at the ceiling, ticking off on his fingers. "It was sixteen years ago. My father ordered a hunting party. I went along. There was just one pack, thankfully, and they numbered only a few. We haven't been troubled by wolves since, until now. Thank you for bringing this to my attention so quickly."

"So when are we going to address the issue, Idris? My men and I would be willing to —"

Idris raised a hand. "I know that, Neirin. I want to speak with Nenniaw as well. He's something of an expert tracker, and so is Dynawd. We'll want to have some idea of how large this current pack is, and where they're spending most of their time. Then we can tackle this. Perhaps a couple of days, all right?"

 _Well, Idris_ is _clan chieftain. It's his call, and I'm sure he knows what he's doing,_ Cromwell told himself. "Of course."

  


The snowfall had ceased, and sunshine found a break in the clouds as the colonel made his way home to take care of some chores. Breathing deeply of the crisp wintry air, Cromwell mulled over the conversation with which he and Tesni had begun their day. She was right, he knew. The puppy deserved a name, and having something consistent to call him going forward would make it that much easier to train him.

He recalled the dogs they'd had in the Gulf, serving in the K-9 unit that had been attached to the same forward base where he and Jack had been deployed. One in particular brought back bittersweet memories, for she was a young stray that Jack had found hanging around and had befriended. As a result of some subtle machinations on Jack's part she'd become part of the K-9 unit, and Jack had wanted to bring her home with him when the war was over. He'd even managed to secure permission to do so, right before his capture. Cromwell had later managed to obtain permission himself to have the dog transported home and deprogrammed so that she would be able to live out her life as a family pet. She'd gone to live with Sara and Charlie just before Jack's release from the hands of the Iraqis, and Cromwell had seen her only once — and that at a distance — between then and her death, which had occurred not long before Charlie's own...

Shaking his head to dispel the reverie, Cromwell turned his attention to the here and now as he arrived at the cottage mounted the porch steps. Patch had one trait firmly in common with Star, the dog from Iraq. Both were brave animals, facing danger with aplomb. Like Star, Patch demonstrated a steadfast nature, not allowing fear to distract him from his master's side. Bravery and loyalty… the colonel realized that he had come upon the very thing he'd been looking for in choosing a formal name for his pup: a core component or components of Patch's personality. Whatever name he chose would have to be related to bravery or to loyalty, or to some combination of the two.

The Pridanic word for "steadfast" was _gadeyrn_ , which also carried connotations of strength or could also mean 'robust' or 'stalwart'. In his _Naina_ Cromwell's Welsh the word was _cadarn_ ; consonantal mutation and vowel shift apparently had served to alter its sound although the meaning remained essentially the same. The pup that Cadogan had given him exhibited all of these characteristics, mused the colonel. Perhaps his name should be Gadeyrn.

He pushed open the cottage door and entered, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the brightness of sunshine on snow to the dimmer indoor light from windows and hearthfire. A furry missile struck his legs only seconds later, emitting yips of joy. "Down, boy!" he commanded, chuckling as he squatted to pet the pup who promptly began licking his face. Tesni had gone to attend to duties of her own, and the cottage was empty save for himself and his furry charge who clearly didn't appreciate being left alone for long.

Cromwell hung up his cloak and added a log to the fire, then began preparing meat and vegetables for a pot of stew that would simmer throughout the afternoon. The pup nosed around his feet, waiting for scraps to fall. When none did, save for the single chunk of meat the colonel gave him early in the process, he retreated to the hearthrug and observed his master through soulful eyes.

When he had the stewpot filled and hanging over the fire, Cromwell busied himself with basin and pitcher, washing up. A fuzzy head butted his shins as he dried his hands, and he looked down to see Patch — _no, Gadeyrn it is_ — looking up at him. The pup carried his favorite toy, a rag-stuffed ball made of scrap fabric from Anwen's sewing room, in his mouth.

"Oh, so you want to play, is that it?" The colonel grinned and scratched between the pup's ears, then checked his watch, still functional after nearly a year and a half on Tir Awyr and even longer on the same battery. "All right. I have almost an hour, so we can go outside for a bit."

He patted the pup's head again. "You have a new name now, too, so you'll need to start learning it." He crossed the room to pluck his cloak from its peg near the door. The puppy followed, still carrying the ball.

Once outside, the pup dropped the ball at Cromwell's feet, his established signal that he was eager to play fetch. The colonel picked up the ball and threw it across the small dooryard, chuckling as his furry companion bounded to retrieve it. "Come on back, Gadeyrn," he called, crouching and clapping his hands in the 'come' signal the dog was already beginning to recognize.

Gadeyrn romped through the snow to drop the ball at his master's feet. All doggy grin and excited bark, he bounced up and down until Cromwell threw the ball again. "Here, Gadeyrn!" he called again as the pup retrieved the toy.

They repeated the process a half-dozen times before a voice said, "So our friend finally has his new name?"

Cromwell turned to find Tesni leaning against the porch rail with a basket in one hand, watching the game.

"It seemed to fit him, _cariad_ ," he said, grinning.

"Given what you told me this morning, I agree." She set the basket down on the steps and came to join him, reaching down to pet Gadeyrn, who grinned up at her, his tail wagging. "So, Gadeyrn," she said. "Do you like your name?"

The tail wagged furiously now, and Tesni laughed. "I think he does."

She slipped an arm about the colonel's waist, beneath his cloak. "I've brought some fresh bread and cheese for our lunch, and there's some roast chicken as well, from Glenys. Yes, for you too," she said to the puppy as he nuzzled her leg. "Let's go inside and eat."


	47. Goundwork

_Chance ever fights on the side of the prudent._ — Euripedes

 

Snow fell softly outside the windows of Bennaeth Bod as twilight deepened. Cromwell rubbed the mist of his breath from the pane with the cuff of his sleeve and turned to watch as Tegwyn lit the seventh and final lamp in the wrought-iron chandelier that served as the primary source of lighting in the manor’s great room. She replaced the lamp’s glass chimney, and her brother Ris tugged at the chain that raised the chandelier into place above the dining table.

“Tesni, tell me what Tegwyn and Ris are doing. Use Arverenic,” said Cadogan. He and his niece were seated across from one another at the table and a clutter of maps, papers and diptychs occupied the space between them, along with a jacketed pitcher of mulled ale and three mugs.

Tesni barely hesitated. _“Nu cyna lugu,”_ she offered in the language spoken by most denizens of Arverenem, one of Tir Awyr’s sister worlds. Her uncle had begun teaching her over the summer, and the two of them engaged in regular practice sessions whenever both were present in Llanavon.

The _cadlywydd_ smiled. “That’s right. You’re doing very well at this lately. Even your accent has improved.”

“It’s getting easier,” Tesni agreed. Rubbing her hands together, she turned to her nephew. “Ris, when you’re finished with that, will you add another log to the fire, please?”

Although the large stone house was not often what one might term truly warm in mid-winter, each room boasted a fireplace that kept the interior at a reasonable temperature. The Pridanic winter wardrobe featured layers of woolen garments, which helped a lot. Long-accustomed to modern thermal fabrics for outdoor use and efficient indoor heating, at least in permanent structures, Cromwell recalled his first winter on Tir Awyr as having been something of an adjustment period. Now he found himself quite comfortable, however. At the moment he wore a fitted tunic in heavy deep-grey wool that buttoned in front from high collar to its hem at mid-thigh, over black woolen trews whose lower legs were cut close about the calf and tucked into sturdy leather boots. The tunic was belted at his waist to prevent drafts, the belt also providing a place for a pouch and the utility knife he was given to carrying. The Pridani wore undergarments of soft linen closest to the skin, and on especially cold days a second shirt of lighter-weight wool between undershirt and tunic. A pair of thickly-knit woolen socks inside the colonel’s boots ensured warm feet. All in all, he felt nearly as comfortable as he had while wearing BDUs in his quarters back at Ramstein two years ago.

Two years that seemed almost like a lifetime.

Cromwell glanced at Ris, who was still securing the chandelier’s chain to its moorings. “I’ll stoke the fire, Cadogan,” he said, beginning to make his way toward the hearth.

Cadogan shook his head and beckoned him toward the table with a wave. “Let Ris do it, Neirin, and come join us instead. I know you haven’t been studying Arverenic for six months as Tesni has, but I assume she’s been helping you out with it?”

The colonel took a seat next to his wife, drawing the ale pitcher toward himself and filling a mug. “A little. I’m nowhere near her level though, I’ll be honest.”

In truth, he was torn between feeling guilty over not getting up to speed with the new language Cadogan had recently asked him to learn, and being slightly burnt-out on the process. It wasn’t that he didn’t genuinely enjoy learning new things, because he did, and language was no exception. Besides his native English, childhood Welsh and the Pridanic he now spoke in everyday life, he was fluent in the Spanish he’d studied in high school and had used since on more than one occasion, especially on black ops in Central America. Courtesy of his military career, he could also get by well enough in German, Arabic and Pashto. Still, he’d had so many new things thrown at him out of necessity over the past seventeen months or more that he sometimes craved a breather; not that he’d ever really complain. _Good grief, you’d think six foreign languages would be enough, but here I am needing more because the Five Worlds don’t share a common tongue. And I can certainly see Cadogan’s reason for wanting me to learn enough to function during off-world missions. It’s no damn good to have a team leader who isn’t able to communicate. We were lucky as hell on Emhain._

Cadogan favored him with a smile. “I understand, Neirin. And I do agree with you that we’re going to have to do something about putting a language standard in place for the movement now that we’re becoming more active, even if it’s just a simplified version of Pridanic. But until that happens or even when it does, familiarity with the tongues of our cousins is something you’ll find useful. I already know you’re good with languages; after all, you certainly learned ours quickly enough.”

Cromwell grew wary, the way he always did when anything related to the subject of his origins came under discussion. “Remember that I already spoke something close to it when I arrived here, though. It isn’t quite the same thing as learning a completely new language.”

The _cadlywydd_ nodded. “I know that, too. Nevertheless, I was impressed then and I still am. Besides, most languages of the Five Worlds do have strong similarities. That should help you, just as it’s helping Tesni. Sabar tells me that he’s certain the languages of our cousins share their origins with each other and our own far back in time before Bel removed our ancestors — and another of his kind probably took yours, I should think — from the First World. Not that there aren’t differences, but there’s a lot in common. I don’t have his experience, obviously, but I find the whole idea fascinating.”

Once again, the colonel was struck by the similarities between Cadogan and himself. The _cadlywydd_ was obviously an educated man — not only in terms of what constituted education within his own culture, but by every useful criterion Cromwell could think to apply. Moreover, they shared a common and wide-ranging curiosity, one which Cromwell was pleased to be able to exercise in his current environment in part due to Cadogan’s library and generosity of its owner in allowing him access to its contents.

As if reading his thoughts, Cadogan continued, “Do you remember that shelf of non-Pridanic books upstairs? The ones where you recognized the alphabet, but couldn’t make out the titles? A number of them are in Averenic, and they’re works you might enjoy. I know we’ve been working on spoken Arverenic for the most part, but if you feel you’d do better by incorporating literature as well, I’ll be happy to loan you some.”

Caught off-guard, Cromwell chuckled, watching as Ris finished stoking the fire and left the room with his sister on his heels. “Hitting me right where I live, eh? You know, I think I’ll take you up on that offer.” He had to admit that the chance to enjoy more of the Celtic worlds’ literature increased the appeal of studying their languages.

“I thought you might.” His CO gave him a wicked grin. “I also have one or two in Gallic, and I’d like you to try that as well once you’ve gotten a bit farther with Arverenic. They’re similar languages, and you can work with Nenniaw a bit. He speaks Gallic well, having been fostered there for a time as a youth in a little exchange the movement arranged. I’ll need you able to handle Gallic too, by the time we go after that ha’tak.”

So _that_ was Cadogan’s aim! “If Nenniaw is fluent in Gallic, why not just put him in charge on that mission? Or use local teams from Galla?”

The _cadlywydd_ shook his head. “Neirin, I want to run this thing with my best people, and that’s the core group right here in Llanavon and Dinas Coedwyg. Besides, keeping as much of the planning for this as possible away from Galla itself minimizes the risk of security leaks.”

“I’ll concede your point on the security issue. Still — ”

Cadogan cut him off. “My mind’s made up on this. Look, I’m going to need at least three teams on that ship, maybe more. I’ll lead one myself, of course, but the other two will also need leaders who can speak the language the local work gangs use. I wouldn’t even want to try this mission without your Wolves, because they’re that good. And I won’t have the Wolves under anyone but you, because you’re one of my best commanders. Besides, you’ll get more out of your men than anyone else could even dream of. They’d follow you into Bel’s own palace if you asked them to, you know. That means you’ll be learning Gallic, along with as many of your men as you think can handle it.”

Cromwell blinked. “Cadogan, I — ” he began.

His friend put up a hand to forestall the protest. “Neirin, you’ll do fine. Trust me on this.”

“It isn’t that,” said the colonel. “With all due respect, Cadogan, are you sure you should be on that ship at all?”

“It’s my mission, Neirin. Well, Sabar’s and mine, technically. Much the same thing, don’t you think?”

It was, but that didn’t mean Cromwell had to like it. “So set up a command post and coordinate things from there via encrypted communicators if you have to. Send in the strike teams under Nenniaw and myself and whoever else you think is qualified, but I’d prefer you wait until we’ve secured the vessel before you come anywhere near it.”

Cadogan shook his head again. “We’ll need someone capable of actually piloting the ha’tak. The best choice for that is one of the Tok’bel, because they have the knowledge to do it. It isn’t as if we can teach you, for instance. The flight control systems for a ha’tak are different from those used in the tel’tak and ger’tak. We obviously don’t have a ha’tak available for practice and even if we got someone like Garlen to build a working simulation of the control panels, I’m afraid it just wouldn’t be sufficient to train a human pilot well enough for the kind of tricky maneuvers that might become necessary. That needs the actual ship.”

Having personally piloted both the tel’tak and ger’tak, the colonel could understand Cadogan’s concerns from a technical standpoint. “All right, but does it have to be Sabar? Why not someone a little farther down the chain of command?”

“Why _not_ Sabar, Neirin? You know I won’t send my people where I’m not willing to go, and neither will he.”

Cromwell pursed his lips. “Because you’re the leader of the entire _Am Rhyddid_ , that’s why. And Sabar leads the Tok’bel. You’re both too valuable to risk capture.” He ignored the internal twinge produced by uttering the word, even in an entirely different language from his native English.

Cadogan closed his eyes briefly and sighed, before favoring his friend with an understanding smile. “Neirin, I appreciate your concern. I’ll even concede your point, I suppose — to an extent. But we’ll need a Tok'bel to pilot that ship properly, and while we'll have a few involved in this mission, Sabar has more personal experience at a ha'tak's controls than most. We're already taking a high risk bringing so many people aboard who won't be familiar to Bel's Jaffa. Sabar and I are still trying to work out a plausible cover story for that, but we can't do this with just the handful of personnel we actually have among the work crews.”

Tesni spoke up. “What about the Tok’bel operatives already in the shipyards themselves? I know you've told me they're quite familiar with the ship's systems. Couldn’t things be arranged to get one of them aboard to pilot the ha’tak away from Galla? They’d have the added advantage of already being known to Bel’s personnel, so it’s likely no one will think twice about their presence.”

“Hmmm. That could work… ” Cadogan looked thoughtful, and Cromwell suspected he might be conversing with his symbiote again. “Of course, it will cost us an operative within the Galla facility. We won’t be able to reinsert him afterwards because there are likely to be too many questions. Anyway, Sabar really wants to be the one to take this ship away from Bel personally. The whole idea was his, after all. And by thunder, I don’t mind admitting that _I_ ’d like to be directly responsible as well. This will be a major coup, and someone from Branoc’s own line should do it.”

“Uncle, you’re _already_ coordinating the mission, or at least the human side of things,” Tesni reminded him. “Isn’t that enough?”

“She’s right,” said Cromwell. “How many operatives do the Tok’bel have undercover at the shipyards?”

“Just two. One works primarily in the administration block on Galla itself,” Cadogan replied. “The other is a section head in the orbital facility where much of the construction work actually takes place. Bel could build his ships on the planet’s surface, but it’s easier to maneuver large components in a weightless environment, so he uses mainly Jaffa techs and a certain number of specially-trained human laborers to handle the actual work. The overseers are mostly Jaffa officers, with Goa’uld overseeing _them_.”

“Tell me more about these orbital facilities, will you?” asked the colonel. “I’m not really used to that kind of thing myself, if you want to know the truth.”

Cadogan nodded. “I understand. Most Goa’uld shipyards are on a planetary surface rather than in orbit, because it’s easier to use simple slave labor in a terrestrial environment. Bel does things a bit differently, although he used to have his on the surface as well. When Bel’s offspring staged their coup, most of his fleet disappeared, and no one really knows how or why, at least for most of it. But according to accounts from the time, he had two ships just ready to leave the repair yards on Galla when a mixed human-Jaffa army loyal to his son Daras — who was his administrator for Galla until the coup — destroyed them and their crews on the ground. Afterward, when even Daras was gone, the people of Galla dismantled the shipyards and repurposed what materials they could for their own use. When Bel returned, he chose to place his new shipyards at Galla again, because it has the highest amount of raw materials, especially naquadah, out of all the Five Worlds. But he ordered that the main construction center be built in orbit about the planet rather than on its surface. According what Sabar has been able to learn from Tok’bel operatives placed within Bel’s organization, he reasoned that it would be better to train a loyal group of trusted human technicians to work in orbit where their Goa’uld and Jaffa masters control every material resource right down to food, water and air, than risk losing additional ships should something go awry a second time.”

“Smart thinking, I suppose,” acknowledged Cromwell.

“Well, Bel _is_ a bit paranoid. He has good reason to be, considering that his fleet isn’t large and his worlds really don’t possess the level of resources a lot of other Goa’uld have access to. As System Lords go, he’s kind of a limited player and he knows it, although he tries to put on airs to hide it. Sabar saw this himself when they first encountered each other, long before he ever became involved with the rebellion. In any case, it’s mainly the administrative and general resource-processing that takes place planetside. All the rest is done in the orbital docks, parts of which are gravitized and pressurized, and parts of which are open to vacuum and in zero gravity. Don’t worry, though; what we’ll be doing will all take place in the portion that has an atmosphere and normal gravity.”

“And your guy oversees that part of the facility, or at least some of it?” The colonel took a sip from his mug.

“He does, which means he’ll be in a position to have access to the ha’tak itself,” Cadogan assured him. “I hate to lose the opportunity to keep him in place, though, because having someone at that level of Bel’s operation has been useful.”

Cromwell raised an eyebrow. “More useful than having a ha’tak will be?”

The _cadlywydd_ grinned. “Good point.”

“And this operative can actually fly the ship?”

The _cadlywydd_ nodded. “He knows how.”

“All right, so that’s settled,” said Cromwell. “We’ll use him. It’s a trade-off, I know, but it’s better than taking a chance on you and Sabar falling into Bel’s hands if something goes wrong, especially given everything you two know about the rebel movement. I know you’re a hands-on commander and I can relate, but some things just make good field sense, and keeping you out of the enemy’s reach on something this big is one of them.”

Cadogan gave him a pained look. “Don’t you think I know that, Neirin?” He sighed again. “Not that Bel would be likely to get anything out of either Sabar or me, even if we were captured. But you’re right. Sabar’s a risk-taker and so am I, and it’s the kind of insight you’ve just given that I value from you. There’s a reason I have you advise some of the other commanders, so I’d be a fool not to take your advice myself.”

The colonel was relieved. At least his CO was willing to be sensible. Still…“As long as you’re inclined to take my advice, I have another suggestion. I still don’t like the idea of only having one option for piloting the ha’tak out of there. What if something happens to the operative?”

“We really don’t have too many choices here,” Cadogan reminded him. “Not if we’re going to limit the number of Tok’bel directly involved.”

“So we use someone else as a backup. Look, how much different are the controls for a ha’tak from those of, say, your tel’tak? I realize the ha’tak is a much larger vessel, but if all the pilot has to do is maneuver it away from the construction dock, get into hyperspace and set a course for wherever it is you want the ship brought, that sounds like it should be manageable even by non-Tok’bel.” Indeed, Cromwell had performed much the same sequence with the tel’tak, starting out in the underground hangar at Caer Ynys and piloting the ship to one or another of the small moons or uninhabited worlds where the Tok’bel maintained hidden equipment caches, supply dumps or — in one instance — a small refining and manufacturing facility for turning the scant quantities of purloined naquadah ore and other material obtained from the Celtic worlds into items the rebellion required for its efforts against Bel. He’d found the concept of hyperspace disconcerting at first, but after the first few trips he’d become accustomed to it. “Unless there’s some reason why only someone with a symbiote could operate the system?”

“No, it doesn’t require a symbiote. Granted, ha’tak are generally piloted either by Goa’uld or by Jaffa, but an unblended human could do it with the proper training. But we don’t have anyone like that, Neirin.”

“So train me.” Ignoring Cadogan’s skeptical look, the colonel plunged ahead. “Look, you’ve said that Garlen could probably rig a simulator for the control system. I realize it isn’t the same as flying the real deal, but it’s better than nothing, and I’d rather we have a backup plan than not. I’ve already learned to fly two other types of ships, so why stop now?”

“You’ve never piloted anything that size,” the _cadlywydd_ protested.

“So let me start with the al’kesh you’ve got stashed away at Caer Ynys. You told me you wanted me to learn to fly that one of these days anyway. It may not be as large as a ha’tak, but it’s way bigger than the tel’tak, so at least it’ll give me some sense of what I’m doing.”

“The control system for that is the same as in the tel’tak, though. It still won’t give you the experience of piloting a ha’tak.”

“That’s why you have Garlen build a simulator. I’ll use that for learning the different control interface, and the al’kesh for getting used to something with some size to it. Besides, I have at least a year to work on this, if the intel you say we’ve gotten about progress on the ha’tak’s construction is any good. With luck I won’t even be needed to fly it, but if something happens to that operative, at least we’ll still have a chance of getting that ship.” Cromwell spread his hands on the table, fixing the _cadlywydd_ with an intense gaze. “We’re going to a lot of trouble to put this mission together, Cadogan, and I don’t want to see it all fall apart because we’ve pinned the most crucial part on just one individual. We have to have a back-up plan.”

“Nye does have a point, Uncle,” added Tesni quietly. The colonel shot her a grateful look.

Cadogan glanced from one to the other before his face took on the slightly distant expression that meant he was conversing with his symbiote again. After a moment he blinked, sighing noisily. “All right, Neirin; it seems that Sabar agrees with you as well, much as it pains him to admit it. We’ll do this your way, although Garlen is probably going to tell us both that we’re crazy. Then again, knowing Garlen he’ll also enjoy the challenge of building a working simulator.”

“If he likes challenges, I’ve got another one for him,” said Cromwell.


	48. Midwinter

_The happiest moments of my life have been the few which I have passed at home in the bosom of my family._   — Thomas Jefferson

 

“So no more sign of wolves nearby?” Cromwell directed the question at Nenniaw as the pair of them stacked firewood on the broad front porch. Bennaeth Bod certainly used its fair share of logs, the colonel reflected. Then again, the large stone manor did have ten rooms occupying two floors with several fireplaces to provide heat, and there was certainly no scarcity of timber around Llanavon.

“None that I’ve found in more than three weeks of looking,” replied Nenniaw, stretching his back and pushing the woolen hood from his sandy hair. “I think it was just a few who’d strayed from their pack and got a little farther into human territory than they’d expected to. The few tracks I saw early on indicated they were relatively young. It happens now and then with the young ones, but they never stay long.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” the colonel acknowledged, placing the last log on the neat stack that occupied one side of the porch, far back out of reach of all but the most fiercely wind-driven snow. It wasn’t snowing at present, but thick clouds filled the sky overhead, their dark bellies edged with the wan rays of the westering sun and promising more of the white stuff as evening closed in.

The front door swung open and Anwen appeared, her arms full of evergreen branches tied with ribbon. “If you two are done hauling firewood, would one of you be so kind as to mount these over the door for me?”

Cromwell chuckled. His diminutive sister-in-law might be long on any number of talents, but there was no way she could reach the top of the doorframe. He reached out to take the branches, noting they were tied together in a sort of garland. “Just centered over the top and hanging down along the sides of the frame?”

Anwen nodded. “Yes, just lay them over those three hooks you see up there.”

As the colonel arranged the garland above the door, he couldn’t help but be reminded of his grandfather placing a similar garland over the front door of the house in Nanticoke. Cromwell’s family had only spent a few Christmases in Pennsylvania when he was a boy, but he’d treasured them. While the Pridanic Midwinter festival wasn’t Christmas, it seemed to share many of the same traditional trappings. The colonel couldn’t quite decide whether this made him miss Earth or helped him to feel more at home here among his adopted kin.

“That looks nice,” said Anwen, stepping back to eye his work. “Thank you, Neirin. Now both of you come inside and get warm.”

The air inside the house carried the scent of roasting meat and baking bread, as well as the heady aroma of apples and currants baking in pies flavored with spices imported from Galla’s warm equatorial islands. Cromwell sniffed appreciatively, recognizing the familiar smells of ginger, cinnamon and cloves as he shed the coat he wore and hung it on a peg near the door. _More at home here, I think,_ he decided, answering his own internal question from a moment before. Besides, for the last eight years he’d spent on Earth, he’d avoided anything to do with Christmas like the plague, or at least he’d tried. Christmas had reminded him too much of Jack, and of the all-too-brief span of years during which he and Lisa, with Jack, Sara and eventually Charlie, had formed their own tight-knit little family, spending whatever time together that they could, especially if he and Jack were able to be home for the holidays.

Things were different now, since making whatever peace he and Jack had found time for in their brief encounter before his fall, and since his own arrival here on Tir Awyr. It would be nearly Christmas on Earth now too, he realized, counting up the months and weeks in his head as well as he could, given that he had no way of knowing exactly how many days had passed outside Cheyenne Mountain while he and Jack — and eventually others — had labored to break the grip of the black hole’s gravity. Still, it had to be close to the festive season. _There might indeed be no place like home for the holidays,_ he mused _, but this is home for now. Maybe forever; who knows? And Jack, I have no idea what your personal life has been like since Charlie died and you and Sara split up, but wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, I hope you have people around who care about you as much as these folks seem to care about me._

Tesni brought him a cup of mulled wine and drew him into the manor’s great room to sit with her on a high-backed settle placed before the fire. “We’ve some time yet before dinner, though everything’s cooking and Dynawd and Glenys are taking their turn watching it all. Tegwyn has gone upstairs to get her _crwth_ and Idris his drum, and I’ve brought my _gitâr_ , so we’ll have some music while we wait.”

Cadogan appeared from the stairway as she finished speaking, with Tegwyn and Idris behind him. “I’ve brought my whistle as well,” he said, brandishing a small wooden flute.

Cromwell recalled having seen his friend playing the instrument several times on Bennaeth Bod’s porch or the banks of the river. He’d been surprised at first to learn that Cadogan was apparently a musician of some skill, but he reasoned that everyone needed a hobby or two, and perhaps the high commander of an entire rebel military group — not to mention the host of the Tok’ra who headed its sister organization — might require more than the normal number to serve as outlets. Indeed, Cadogan appeared to have several interests which he used to maintain his equilibrium and entertain himself in whatever downtime he managed to find. “I’ve played the _chwiban_ since I was a boy,” Cadogan had told him once, when the colonel had encountered him piping a plaintive melody in the near-dusk of a summer evening. “It’s relaxing and enjoyable, so why not? You ought to give it a try.”

Cromwell had demurred, chuckling and shaking his head. “I’m not the most musical of people, I’m afraid. Oh, I _like_ music well enough, but I’ve never been any good at making it myself.” He’d learned in his youth that he had little if any sense of pitch useful for singing or for playing the piano that stood in his grandmother’s parlor. Having tried, he’d cheerfully turned to other pursuits instead, giving the matter no further thought.

Cadogan hadn’t pressed him, for which he was grateful. Early on, Cromwell had noted that the Pridani seemed to weave music through much of their lives, and he was happy that he’d been able to please Tesni by learning the dances that went with so many of the tunes. Dance, at least, was dependent upon observation and physical coordination, skills he actually possessed. His career had honed the first to a fine edge, and his basic athleticism seemed to have provided the second. Moreover, he’d found that he actually enjoyed the sort of group dancing practiced among his adoptive people, and so was content to have at least this means of participation.

Anwen, Ris, Nenniaw and Blodwen joined the gathering as Tegwyn drew the _crwth,_ which to Cromwell’s eyes resembled something like a cross between a small lap harp and a violin, from its case. Tesni already had the _gitâr,_ which strongly resembled its modern counterpart on Earth, in her hands and was tuning it. After a few moments spent doing the same, Tegwyn drew her bow across the _crwth_ ’s strings and pronounced herself ready.

“Shall we begin with ‘Snow on the Branches’ or with ‘Turning of the Year’, perhaps?” Tesni asked.

“Oh, the first, I think,” her niece replied. “We can play ‘Turning’ once everyone’s warmed up a bit.”

Idris tapped his single drumstick upon the flat, tambourine-like drum that for all the world resembled an Irish _bodhran_ the colonel had once seen played at some Celtic music festival he’d attended with Lisa, his first wife. He remembered the name only because Lisa had nearly bought one. The Pridani called the same instrument a _bwrdd-croen_ , which translated roughly as “skin-board”. After a few beats to set the rhythm, the others joined in.

Cromwell recognized the tune as one of many played for dancing a few nights earlier in the gather hall. The thatch-roofed pavilion just off the square which served as an outdoor dining and social hall in Llanavon’s sultry summertime boasted an ingenious set of removable wall panels, complete with windows of oiled parchment and a few of glass, that were added to its otherwise open-sided frame in mid-autumn, enclosing the space for winter use. The kitchen section was similarly enclosed for winter, allowing its two-sided fireplace to provide warmth and a place to prepare food and drink for gatherings. On the morrow, the local populace would gather there to celebrate Midwinter itself; tonight was the eve of the celebration. At least some of the food being prepared in Bennaeth Bod’s kitchen was intended as a portion of the family’s own contribution to the feast. In fact, a great many of the edible ‘tithes’ that found their way to the manor over the course of the year tended to find their way back to the communal board enjoyed on such feast-days by all who lived in Llanavon under Clan Branoc’s protection, be they members by kinship or not.

He soon found himself tapping one foot in time to the music as Tesni began to sing. As she reached the end of the first verse, everyone except himself and Cadogan, who was occupied with the whistle, joined in the chorus:

_Snow on the branches, midwinter’s white gown  
From farmstead to wildwood, the year winding down.  
Short grows the daytime and longer the nights  
Until the wheel’s turning shall bring us to rights.  
Snow on the branches, remember your place  
Cov’ring the green only at the sun’s grace.  
You dance on the landscape a season, no more  
‘Til springtime relieves you, as ever before._

They continued through the rest of the song, each member of the family in turn singing a verse, and all joining the chorus. The colonel knew the words to most of the verses and to the chorus, having heard this song several times before. By now it was nearly as familiar to him as several of Earth’s Christmas carols. Still, he refrained from adding his voice to the chorus, and counted carefully to be sure that the verses would run their course before reaching his place in the circle. Unless the traditional song had more verses than he was aware of, he’d be spared the expectation of singing one, though he wondered whether the others would expect to simply pick up at the same point in the circle for the next song. He hoped not, because he was comfortable and didn’t want to have to absent himself to avoid an awkward moment… but neither did he want to sing and ruin an otherwise pleasant performance by the people he loved.

The song reached its end, and after a few experimental chords and a glance around the circle, Tesni led them into “Turning of the Year”, another Midwinter-themed song. Cromwell excused himself to top off his wine cup as Ris, seated to his right, contributed a verse, and returned just after Tesni, who occupied the place to his left, reached the halfway point in the next one.

At the close of the song, Tesni turned to him. “You missed your turn, _cariad_. Why aren’t you at least singing the chorus with us?”

 _Busted._ The colonel shrugged. “I’ve told you before, Tesni, you really don’t want to hear me sing.”

Tesni favored him with an indulgent smile. “Oh, come now. It can’t possibly be that bad.”

He chuckled. “Trust me. I really can’t sing.”

Tesni cocked her head at him. “I find that hard to believe. With a voice like yours… ”

They’d been through this before, Tesni maintaining that she loved the sound of his speaking voice, and that anyone who sounded like that ought surely to be able to sing. He’d been spared having to prove it by chance happenings — a lucky visit by Ris with a message from Cadogan, an interruption from one of his men stopping by with a question — but Cromwell had been certain the matter would come up again. Apparently that time had arrived. “ _Fy nghalon_ , I honestly can’t carry a tune, not even in a bucket.” He smiled. “But I’m perfectly happy to listen to all of you. Just let me do that.”

Tesni shook her head with a sigh and bent to her _gitâr_ once more. Strumming a few chords, she looked up again at her family. “Anyone for ‘Holly Green and Red?” Receiving unanimous nods, she played the intro to yet another festive song. _May as well call them carols,_ Cromwell decided, since that was what they truly reminded him of.

This time, as everyone joined in singing the chorus after the second verse, Tesni elbowed him in the ribs and gave him a significant look. _Good grief, she’s not going to let this go until I prove to her that I’m no musician,_ he realized. There was nothing for it; he knew his wife was aware that he was at least familiar with the words.

With another shrug and an apologetic glance around the circle, he opened his mouth and gave it his best try. He saw Anwen wince, noticed Cadogan raising an eyebrow in his direction from his place near the fire, and could have sworn he heard Ris falter for just a second before the youth coughed and increased his own volume. A moment later, Cromwell felt another elbow in his ribs, harder this time, and Tesni flashed him a look that clearly said, _Stop_. He shrugged again with a sheepish smile, and gratefully complied.

At the end of the song, Tesni laid the _gitâr_   aside and announced a short break, claiming she wanted to check on something in the kitchen. As the various family members stood and stretched, moving about the manor’s great room, Cromwell felt his wife tug at his arm. “Come with me,” she said, standing and drawing him to his feet.

Obediently, he followed her toward the kitchen. Just inside the short passageway that led past the pantry and into the kitchen proper, Tesni paused, turning to face him. “Neirin, what in the world possessed you to do that?”

The colonel arranged his face in his most innocent expression. “What? I thought you wanted me to sing.”

“Yes, but you didn’t need to… ” She trailed off, and he could see comprehension dawn. “You weren’t trying to be funny just then, were you?”

He shook his head solemnly, fighting the urge to laugh. “No, I wasn’t. I honestly can’t sing to save my life. Never could.”

Her eyes widened. “I thought you were only being modest when you said that.”

Cromwell chuckled. “No, I wasn’t. Can’t carry a tune, and learned years ago there was little point in trying. I do all right without it, though. A man doesn’t _have_ to sing, after all.”

“Well, no, he doesn’t.” She reached up to gently caress the side of his face from temple to jawline. “Though I imagine you miss out, not being able to?”

He laughed outright this time. “ _Cariad,_ I don’t know how I can miss what I’ve never had in the first place. I genuinely enjoy listening to music. Love it, in fact. But I’ve tried singing, and it doesn’t work because I can’t match a pitch. Tried playing an instrument once, too, when I was a boy. Oh, I could play the notes if someone showed me where to put my fingers, but I couldn’t have told you whether what I played truly sounded right or wrong. And it mustn’t have been right, because pretty soon I was told not to bother. I had plenty of other things to keep myself busy and I could still enjoy _listening_ to music, so I didn’t really think too much about not being able to make my own after that.”

She gave him a dubious look; he grinned and gathered her into his arms. “Tesni, it really doesn’t bother me. I just want to sit and enjoy the songs. You all sound great, and if I can’t contribute, that’s all right.”

“I’m sorry I put you on the spot, then.” Her arms went around him, and they held each other close for a moment. Then she drew back slightly, looking up at his face. “Though I’ve noticed you do have a sense of rhythm…”

The colonel chuckled again. “I suppose I do, perhaps. What of it?”

She smiled. “Idris has more than one _bwrdd-croen.._ Ris sometimes plays it as well, so one of them shall teach you.”

He groaned. This was not exactly what he’d been planning. “Do I have to?”

“No… ” The smile turned mischievous. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d at least try. I hate leaving you out, even though I know you say you don’t mind.”

He couldn’t say no to her. He tried, but the word simply wouldn’t come. Instead, he sighed and kissed her before answering, “All right, I’ll try. But not tonight.”

“No, not tonight. But soon.” A grin bloomed on her face. “Thank you, Nye. And I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“You didn’t embarrass me. Not really, anyway. But the next time I tell you something, please believe me?”

She hugged him tightly. “I suppose I’d better.”

When they returned to the fireside, no one said a word about Cromwell’s failed attempt at singing, although he was amused to note that no one suggested he try again. The remainder of the sing-along passed without incident, and in due time Glenys poked her fair head into the room to announce that dinner was ready.

Everyone bustled to get the meal on the table, as the colonel’s adoptive family neither employed nor desired servants. Nobility they might be, he supposed, but by now it was clear to Cromwell that membership in a Pridanic clan’s chief family represented far more of obligation than of ease. Idris and the others had no qualms about rolling up their sleeves and doing the same work as anyone.

Cromwell often reflected that it wasn’t much different from the way military rank was meant to function in the world to which he’d been accustomed. Rank implied duty; the higher one’s rank, the greater one’s responsibility for those below. In the otherwise egalitarian society of the Pridani, the primary role of clan chief was to guide and organize the efforts of the local populace in providing for the needs of the group as a whole and to mediate the rare dispute that might arise. The concept seemed to be that of “first among equals”, and as near as the colonel could figure from his reading of Cadogan’s histories, probably owed its hereditary nature only to an older power structure that had developed around the time when Bel’s offspring had ruled his worlds in their father’s name and then risen against him.

He caught himself musing on this as he carried bread to the table and shook his head, chuckling softly. _Almost a year and a half you’ve spent on this planet, Cromwell, and you’re still trying to puzzle out what makes its people tick based on what you learned in school. Not that this isn’t like being dropped into a living piece of history in some ways, but can’t you just relax and go with it sometimes rather than trying to analyze everything?_

  


Dinner was enjoyable, as always with his family, and included the traditional sharing of the cup that Cromwell now understood symbolized unity, though he had not on the occasion over a year earlier when it had formalized his adoption by those he had since come to love. At one point, Anwen broached the subject of wolves again, as she passed a plate of roast pork in Nenniaw’s direction. “So you’ve seen no indication of them, I’m told?”

“No, they’re gone,” Nenniaw reassured her as he took the plate. “Young, they were, and just a bit out of their range if you ask me. But there’ve been no tracks in weeks.”

“Well, that’s good to know. I’ll worry less about the livestock, then. The barns are safe enough, but animals need a bit of fresh air even in winter, and there’s only so much a stout pen can do to protect them.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” put in Cadogan. “There’s still plenty of game deep in the forest to keep wolves occupied, even at this time of year. I doubt they’ll trouble us, despite the tales some like to tell.” He paused then, and it was clear from his expression that he was listening to some comment from his symbiote.

A moment later, his eyes refocused and he chuckled. At Anwen’s impatient throat-clearing, he grinned and said, “Sabar’s just reminded me of an old tale regarding a wolf, in which the wolf is  _not_ a villain.”

That drew a look of interest from nearly everyone at the table. “Is it a long story, Uncle?” asked Tegwyn.

Cadogan smiled. “The wolf’s portion is short, but the story itself is longer.”

“Perhaps you might save it for after the dishes are done, then,” suggested Anwen. “That way you don’t have to try to eat and tell a story at the same time, and we’ll all be able to enjoy it once the kitchen is clean.”

The _cadlywydd_ chuckled again. “Fair enough, especially since I drew the short straw before dinner and get to wash. Who’s drying?”

“That would be me,” said Idris. He cocked his head at his wife. “And no, I still haven’t figured out how she arranged those straws just so.”

Anwen shot him a look of feigned indignation. “I did nothing of the sort.”

“Of course not, my love.” His lips twitched in a smile as he said it.

Cromwell grinned. The master of Bennaeth Bod — well, both of them, really — always amused him, as did its mistress. “We could ask Ethni and the two pups to help you,” he commented. “I imagine they’ll gladly clean plates after a meal like this.”

Anwen turned the same expression of a moment earlier in his direction, and he held up his hands in mock surrender. “Ah, I suppose maybe we won’t.” Everyone burst out laughing.

 

With dinner over and the table cleared, the rest of the family once more repaired to the fireside and song while the chiefs of Clan Branoc pulled kitchen patrol, a development the colonel privately found amusing although he’d never say it aloud. This time Ris played the _bwrdd-croen_ and Dynawd took up Cadogan’s whistle, playing it with nearly as much skill as the _cadlywydd_. No one asked Cromwell to sing, and he was content to simply enjoy the performance of the others.

Halfway through the chorus of a song the colonel had previously only heard as an instrumental dance but which he’d been informed was called “Season of Stars”, two male voices added themselves to the chorus as Idris and Cadogan emerged from the kitchen.

_The very sky announces the turning of the year  
As stars descend upon the land  
Watchful eyes behold them but have no care or fear  
‘Tis only luck that’s close at hand  
Come cheer, in happy hearts abide  
Hold fast to hope in wintertide._

Detouring from his route toward the group gathered by the fire, Idris cupped his eyes with his hands and peered out the front window. “And what do you know?” he called, turning from the glass with a grin. “The sky’s cleared after all, and you can actually see them falling.”

Tesni laid her _gitâr_ aside and stood, drawing her husband with her again. “Well, that’s good,” she said, smiling.

She moved toward the door with the colonel in tow, followed by the others, and took his coat and her own cloak from their pegs. After handing the coat to him, she fastened the cloak about her shoulders over her tunic.

Cromwell looked at her helplessly, with no idea what was going on. “Ah, where are we going, _cariad_?” he asked, mystified, as he pulled on his coat and began quickly doing up its buttons.

She laughed — even that was a musical sound, the colonel noted — and exclaimed, “I forgot that you don’t know! We had such clouds for so many nights in a row last Midwinter that you never got to see the falling stars. They come each year at Midwinter. I know you’ve seen them at other times, _cariad_.”

It was true; he’d seen at least three or four meteor showers since his arrival on Tir Awyr, but he’d been completely unaware that Midwinter was accompanied by one as well. Meteor showers especially reminded him of boyhood summers in Pennsylvania, watching the Perseids in the August sky with his brother Nick and their grandparents. They also reminded him of Jack.

“Come on.” Tesni tugged at his arm; the rest of the family were making their way outside, bundled in cloaks and coats against the cold. “Not that I necessarily believe it, but tradition says that to see the falling stars on Midwinter’s Eve bodes good luck for the coming year.”

Cromwell shrugged, allowing her to lead him outside. He knew there wasn’t really much that small orbiting rocks drawn in by gravity could do to change one’s luck, but the old superstitious streak that lurks just below the surface in so many military folk ran as strongly in him as in anyone, when it came right down to it. Reaching into the pocket of his trews, he fingered his unit coin, the single reminder of his old life that he still carried out of habit as his own good luck charm. Besides, he rationalized, meteor showers were a thing of beauty and worth watching for that alone.

This one certainly promised to be a treat. Joining the rest of the family in the front yard, breath misting in the chill air, he gazed upward into the clear sky and wondered what had become of the clouds. The firmament was inky black and strewn with stars, the wide swath of the Milky Way dominating its arc in brilliant majesty. Sights like this were rare on Earth, with its ever-present light pollution; there, the stars had been clearest when he’d been in the middle of nowhere, far from civilization. Rural Nicaragua. Afghanistan. Iraq, on one terrible night.

Here, there was no light pollution to speak of, Pridanic settlements being illuminated solely by candles, oil lamps, and the occasional torch. The twin moons rode close together just beyond the skeletal topmost branches of oak that marked the edge of the woods, their light casting faint double shadows on the snowy ground. From neighboring houses, other figures stepped into the cold, their faces turned skyward. He heard Tesni’s sharply indrawn breath and followed her pointing finger as a bright streak traced its way across the sky to vanish beyond the trees. Catching another from the corner of his eye an instant later, he similarly directed her gaze.

The eleven of them watched for several minutes, murmuring quietly among themselves, as their neighbors did likewise. Cromwell counted a dozen meteors during that time, before Idris turned back toward the house, announcing loudly that he was tired of freezing his feet. A chuckle rippled through the gathering to be taken up by their nearest neighbors, who stood just within earshot in the street in front of their own house.

As if at the breaking of a spell that had held them transfixed, everyone filed back into the manor, stripping off cloaks and coats, gloves and hoods, to gather once more before the fire with mulled cider this time. As Ris added another log to the blaze, Tegwyn brought the _cadlywydd_ a cup of cider and asked, “Uncle Cadogan, may we please have that story now?”

Cadogan blinked. “Ah, yes, the story with the wolf. I think I’ll let Sabar tell it, since he knows it somewhat better than I do.”

Bowing his head, he closed his eyes for a moment. When he looked up, it was clear the symbiote had taken control. {“This is a very old tale, one I heard in my youth on the world where I was spawned,”} Sabar began, in his by now familiar multi-toned voice. Cromwell noted that he kept its harmonics muted slightly for the intimate confines of the family circle. {“It was told by the human folk who lived there, and while it’s quite fanciful, they took great pride in telling it as though it were true. Some of them may well have believed it, for all I know.”} Sabar shrugged. {“Either way, it makes an interesting story. It seems there once was a king whose brother stole his kingdom and exiled him. The rightful king was named Numitor, and his evil brother was Amulius.”}

Some memory pinged in the back of Cromwell’s mind, and he leaned forward to listen more closely as Sabar continued. {“Numitor had a daughter named Rhea, who as yet had no children, being unmarried. Fearful that any son of Rhea’s might do to him what he had done to his brother, Amulius had Rhea shut away in a temple where she could have access to no man, and would remain forever virginal in the service of a goddess, for the people of that time and place still believed in any number of gods and goddesses.”}

“She wasn’t made a host, was she, Uncle Sabar?” Tegwyn wanted to know.

{“No, and in fact the goddess in question was not Goa’uld. She was simply an idea the people believed in and made statues of, and a convenient way for Amulius to rid himself of the risk of his niece bearing sons who might oppose him. In any case, sending her off into service and a virgin’s vow didn’t really work, because Rhea got pregnant anyway. The story is foggy on who the father was; some versions claim it was a god, some that it was a hero, and still others that it was Amulius himself. Rhea gave birth to twin boys, and Amulius ordered all three — mother and sons — put to death.”}

Sabar paused and sipped from his cup, as if ordering his thoughts. {“Rhea was killed, but the man who was supposed to kill her infant sons instead chose to spare their lives, and placed them in a basket on the bank of a river, which soon flooded and carried them away. The basket was caught in the roots of a tree downstream, near the base of a hill, and a she-wolf found them there when the floodwaters receded. The babies were hungry, and the wolf had pups of her own, so she had milk and suckled the twins. They lived with the wolf for a time, until a shepherd discovered them and took them home, where he and his wife raised the boys as their own.”}

Cromwell felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and a shiver ran down his spine. _I know this story!_ He was familiar with the legend of Romulus and Remus, the mythological founders of Rome, having learned it in school as a boy. This sounded like the same tale.

Sabar’s next words confirmed the colonel’s suspicions. {“The twins were named Romulus and Remus, and they grew up to be shepherds themselves. Some accounts say they were also the leaders of a band of outlaws. Either way, Remus got involved in a fight with some other shepherds and was captured and brought to King Amulius to be judged. Romulus gathered their followers and went to free his brother, and the presence of twin young men the age that Rhea’s sons would have been revealed their identity. Romulus succeeded in freeing his brother, and the two of them, along with their followers, killed Amulius.”}

“It sounds like some of the stories from the Wars of the Gods and from early in the Interregnum, at least the bit about one ruler usurping another’s place,” observed Tesni.

The Tok’bel leader seemed to consider this for a moment. {“You’re right; it does,”} he agreed. {“Let’s just say that there were similarities between the way people lived during that time, and the way they lived on the world where I spent my own early years. Mind you, this was very long ago; just a bit longer than there have been humans on Tir Awyr, and the story I’m telling is even older than I am.”}

Cromwell’s mind was in a whirl. It was one thing to be intellectually aware that symbiotes lived for thousands of years, but to be reminded of this so directly was nothing short of awe-inspiring, and a bit uncomfortable as well. His own forty-eight years paled by comparison, causing him to feel suddenly insignificant. _What must we seem like to them?_ he wondered. _Perhaps the way an intelligent, speaking rat or rabbit might seem to us?_

He was struck by another thought on the heels of the first. He knew the Tok’ra did not avail themselves of the sarcophagus to extend their host’s lives — and perhaps their own? — as did the Goa’uld, and found himself wondering what it might be like for a Tok’ra symbiote of Sabar’s age, which had to be at least two millennia given that the Pridani had inhabited Tir Awyr for nearly that long, and having what had to have been dozens of human hosts during that time. _Given the expected human lifespan, say the middle of the bell curve, figure an average of less than sixty years, probably, from blending to the death of the host. Less if the blending occurs later than the host’s twenties. Spread over a two thousand year span, that must add up to a good forty or fifty hosts._

Surely the symbiote couldn’t retain the memories of each individual host, could it? And if so, were all of those memories also shared with its current host, or only those of his or her most recent predecessors? There had been occasions when Cadogan seemed to speak of events too remote to have occurred in his lifetime, or at least his adulthood, yet he related them in language that implied he spoke from direct memory. Cromwell had always chalked such references up to a sort of filtering of Sabar’s own observations of those events, but they could just as easily originate in the memories of a previous host. What effect must the combined weight of all those memories, from the symbiote and those previous hosts, have upon each successive one?

The thought made him shudder, even as it increased the regard in which he held Cadogan. He’d found the _cadlywydd_ impressive from the start, but now he marveled at the strength of personality and character it must require for the man to maintain his own identity intact beneath the weight of what was must be forty-fold his own lifetime’s span of memory — surely Cadogan was no more than fifty-five, if even that — and not lose himself in the sea of years, becoming a mere shell for his symbiote.

“So what happened next?” Ris inquired, his question drawing the colonel’s mind back to the here-and-now. Cromwell wondered how much he’d missed while focused on his own thoughts.

{“Well, Romulus and Remus were offered the chance to rule the kingdom, which was really more of a city-state, together. They refused to do so while their grandfather Numitor still lived, and so restored him to the throne since it was rightfully his. At the same time, though, they weren’t keen on remaining under anyone’s rule, and decided to go a little ways away and found a city of their own that they might rule there instead, over their own band of followers.”} His expression grew somber. {“ They’d decided to build it in the spot where the she-wolf had found them as infants, but. Romulus killed his brother in a fit of rage during an unfortunate dispute over exact location where this had occurred. In sorrow, he buried Remus and built upon the spot that seemed right to him.”}

He paused for a sip of cider before continuing. {“He named the city _Roma_. Some say he named it after himself. Roma began as a city of shepherds, runaway slaves, and outlaws, and yet it went on to become one of the most influential cities upon its world.”}

“What was the name of its world, Uncle?” Tegwyn posed the question this time.

Sabar smiled faintly and, the colonel could swear, a little sadly. {“It has as many names as there are peoples who remember it, Tegwyn. You would call it _Y Byd Cyntaf_.”}

 _Y Byd Cyntaf._ The First World. Cromwell felt Tesni’s fingers, entwined with his own, tighten their grip momentarily, but neither of them spoke as Sabar went on in answer to their niece’s question. {“Roma was founded on the same world from which your own ancestors came here at Bel’s offer to bring them away from encroachment by Roma’s own soldiers. By then Roma had become the seat of an empire not unlike a System Lord’s own, and had its own Goa’uld operating to promote and expand it, posing as gods much as Bel has done.”}

Sabar sighed, an uncharacteristic sound. {“At one time it seemed as though perhaps Roma might escape the imperial lure and go another way. My own mother, who opposed the Goa’uld way of doing things, tried to push Roma in a kinder direction when she served as an advisor to Numa Pompilius, the city’s second king. She tried with one or two later rulers as well, but while Numa actually listened to her, it seemed that Roma’s track was set in stone by events too great for her to counter. So she instead bred offspring who would share her beliefs and who might, by sheer patience and in greater number than one alone, manage in time to end the slavery in which the Goa’uld desire to hold all the worlds they find useful.”}

“And that’s why you fight them, then, isn’t it?” Ris, again, leaning forward in rapt attention as he waited for the answer he surely must already know.

A solemn nod. {“That’s why we fight them.”}

“Are there still Goa’uld on the First World?” asked Tegwyn.

Sabar shook his head. {“No, I believe they’ve all gone. No one’s bothered with that world in centuries, perhaps longer. Your people were among the last to be taken, and to my knowledge no Goa’uld has had any use for the Tau’ri — their name and ours for those humans left behind on their native world — since then. For one thing, there’s no longer access by _chappa’ai_ ; everything has to be done by ship. That’s more trouble than it’s worth for a world that doesn’t have naquadah, even to a Goa’uld like Ra, who was once its ruler. In the long run, the world of the Tau’ri was only useful as a source of hosts, or  — forgive me — slaves, and there are enough of your kind spread among the stars these days that I doubt anyone’s seen a real need to go there again.”}

It was clear now to Cromwell that Sabar had no knowledge of any alliance or even contact between the Tok’ra and Earth. Either he still hadn’t had contact with the main group of his own kind, or else the Tok’ra were playing things very close to the vest. Then again, the colonel supposed that the principle of ‘need to know’ might apply as much between the Tok’ra and what they surely regarded as a rogue band of mavericks as it did within the US military or even among the _Am Rhyddid_ in all its forms on the Five Worlds. And as much as he loathed the fact that this policy had on occasion resulted in his having somewhat less information than he would have preferred in dealing with a situation, including the in which one he’d found himself on arriving here, at the same time he could utterly respect the need for it. After all, one couldn’t inadvertently reveal or compromise that which one did not know.

Sabar had bowed his head again, passing control back to Cadogan who raised it and said brightly, “Well, you were promised a story, and you certainly got one. Myself, I’d prefer some more music, if anyone’s in the mood.”


	49. The Serpent's Command

 

 _The reward of one duty is the power to fulfill another._ — George Eliot

 

 

"General Kasol."

Recognizing the voice, Sholan paused in his rapid stride down the corridor but did not turn. He listened to the hurried footfalls as the speaker caught up to him.

"Your pardon, Lord General," said Lan'ac, drawing first even and then slightly ahead to bow before him. The Jaffa warrior was second-in-command to Tirin, Bel's First Prime. "My Lord Bel requests that you attend him."

Sholan scowled. An audience with Bel was not how he'd hoped to spend his afternoon. {"At once?"}

The Jaffa nodded. "Yes, Lord General. You will find him in his receiving room."

With an inward sigh, Sholan turned back the way he had come. The broad corridor here led deeper into the System Lord's palace, eventually to the royal apartments themselves. It led outward as well, to terrace and plaza and the road to Sholan's — or more precisely, Kasol's — own offices in the heart of the military complex halfway across the city. Whomever the offices belonged to, Sholan reflected, it appeared that he would be delayed in reaching them by whatever question it was that Bel had for him.

Beside him, Lan'ac turned as well. Sholan threw him a glance. {"Have you been ordered to escort me, or merely to deliver our Lord's message?"}

The Jaffa paused, bowing his head again rather than meet a Goa'uld superior's eyes unnecessarily. "Only to deliver the message, my lord."

{"I see. Then you are free to go on about your other duties, Commander Lan'ac. I will attend our Lord as he has ordered."}

"Yes, Lord General." Lan'ac vanished silently into the side corridor whose intersection they had reached, leaving the general alone with his thoughts.

Not only his own thoughts, of course. _What do you suppose is on Bel's mind now, for him to have summoned us?_ his host, Brice, wondered silently.

{I wouldn't be surprised to find he's still worried about Moccas and wishes to be reassured,} Sholan replied. He knew their internal conversations were likely what kept Brice, a native of Galla, sane through the long years they spent deep undercover, masquerading as Goa'uld and a trusted member of Bel's military. 'General Kasol' had been some time in the making — indeed, the persona had been a disaffected, low-ranking officer come recently from another System Lord's service when they'd first devised and then assumed his identity — but in this guise Sholan had since managed to rise through the ranks, attaining a position invaluable to both the Tok'bel and the human rebels. {Bel's focus on his own upstart seed means good cover for the rebels, at least as long as their actions can be blamed on Moccas}, he reminded his host.

 _True,_ Brice acknowledged. _I just wonder sometimes how long we'll be able to continue doing that. Sooner or later something is bound to happen to plant suspicion that not everything is Moccas' fault, and I can't help but worry about what Bel will do when he realizes we've lied to him._

{With any luck, the rebels will have gained enough strength and resources by then to be more of a match for Bel, and Moccas may still prove to be enough of a distraction that it helps their efforts. With Bel's attentions and resources divided between two threats, he won't be able to throw everything he has at the rebels.}

 _No, but I'll admit I'm also concerned about what will happen to us._ There was a touch of apprehension in Brice's mental tone, though nowhere near the level a less-seasoned host operative would have expressed. No doubt about it, Sholan's host was nearly as tough as he was. It was part of why they were a good team. Brice had spent several years in the Gallic rebel movement before blending with Sholan some five decades ago. Sholan recognized his host's comment for what it was: a plain acknowledgment of the fact that theirs was an extraordinarily risky assignment. A certain amount of concern, even fear, was natural. Acknowledging that and moving beyond it was the key to avoiding the mental paralysis that might otherwise result from living under such precarious circumstances over an extended period of time.

{It's simple,} said Sholan, never one to sugarcoat the obvious. {Either we'll get away in time to escape his wrath or we won't. We've had contingency plans in place for all kinds of events over the years, and this is just one more. No sense worrying about it right now, especially when there's important work to be done.}

Their internal conversation ceased as they approached the entrance to Bel's private apartments. Two massive Jaffa guards flanked the stout doors, their armor gleaming and helmets open to reveal impassive expressions. Sholan stopped before them, assuming the haughty expression and imperious body language he'd long since perfected for use as Kasol's normal bearing. Jaffa formed the bulk of Bel's military operation and nearly all of his personal guard, but Goa'uld — especially of Kasol's rank — were superior to them. As Sholan drew to a halt before the guards, they dropped their gaze.

{"I have been summoned to attend upon our Lord,"} he informed them.

"Of course, Lord General," the guard on the left replied, bowing his head slightly and turning to swing open the intricately carved door open behind him. His counterpart on the right did likewise, allowing Sholan access to the inner residence.

The corridor within was softly lit by oil lamps in wall niches. Their flickering illumination seemed mildly out-of-place to Sholan. Here in Arandesed, Bel's capital city on Bohan, the level of technology used in everyday life tended to be higher than in most other cities in the System Lord's domain. Unlike them, Arandesed was populated primarily by Goa'uld: courtiers, government officials and their staffs, military personnel, underlings and overseers and the various lackeys and functionaries who surrounded their lord and carried out his will. Sycophants and hangers-on rounded out the mix. Beneath the Goa'uld was another layer of society, made up of Bel's Jaffa warriors and their families. A System Lord's military usually comprised two complementary echelons, one Jaffa and the other Goa'uld. Jaffa were slaves and tended to be footsoldiers, though obviously there were some who attained higher rank, serving as officers over their fellows, leading platoons and the like, or serving as pilots for ger'tak fighters and other ships of their master's fleet. A System Lord's personal bodyguard would be made up of such high-ranking Jaffa as well, and the whole of his Jaffa military operation headed by that highest-ranked of all Jaffa: the First Prime.

But it would be far too risky to entrust the safekeeping of one's entire empire to the loyalty of a slave, and no matter how high a Jaffa's rank, at the end of the day he was still only a slave; even a First Prime. Bel knew this as well as any Goa'uld, and his hierarchy followed the same basic format as that of others, employing a separate military structure made up of Goa'uld. Goa'uld military personnel were officers, charged with overseeing the most sensitive operations and issues of security, and carrying out the orders of their lord through the use of their own number or of Jaffa. The lowest-ranked Goa'uld officer still outranked every Jaffa with the possible exception of the First Prime, and nearly every Jaffa military unit answered to at least one Goa'uld officer, whether directly or through its own Jaffa commander.

This organizational structure was the key to why the Tok'bel and their Tok'ra cousins were able to place operatives close to their Goa'uld foes. Under normal circumstances, the rank-and-file of Goa'uld society — from middle managers to a System Lord's inner court — were drawn primarily from the offspring of whichever System Lord ruled the domain in which those Goa'uld lived and served. Maintaining a useful population of Jaffa required symbiotes, as young Jaffa were faced with the necessity of taking a larval symbiote into their abdominal pouches to replace their natural immune system whose function had been genetically programmed to fail at the onset of puberty. It was this biological necessity that had allowed the Goa'uld to enslave their otherwise human minions for millennia, ensuring their perpetual servitude. But biologically-imperative servitude did not necessarily guarantee personal loyalty to an individual Goa'uld master; history had shown that even Jaffa could at times be opportunistic enough to break from one master in order to serve another who made a better offer. The potential for treachery on the part of their Jaffa meant that it was a good idea to keep a class of other Goa'uld in power over the Jaffa, provided these Goa'uld could themselves be counted upon for their loyalty.

Hence had come the system of fosterage in use across so much of Goa'uld-dominated space. A larval symbiote matured roughly seven years after being placed in a Jaffa's incubating pouch. Not every symbiote could be accommodated in maturity, of course; given the long lives of the Goa'uld, there simply weren't enough resources to support a population that large. Therefore some symbiotes were simply discarded in a random culling process upon their reaching maturity. Those fortunate enough to be chosen for continued life — virtually every queen, since those were rare, and about 40% of the males — were given hosts and sent off to be fostered by trusted subordinates or courtiers loyal to the System Lord and his queen, or to the Queen herself if she were also the System Lord, as sometimes happened.

Fosterage lasted up to ten years, long enough for the symbiote's character to be assessed. Those deemed ambitious enough to pose a credible threat to their parents' power were summarily executed, leaving the less-ambitious yet capable to move on to positions of service within the Goa'uld hierarchy. Most were destined to rise no higher than middle management, overseeing this or that small group of slaves in providing whatever goods and services were needed by those higher up, or possibly serving in the lower echelons of the military. These were actually quite happy with their lot, either through a sense of duty or by simply having failed to inherit the sort of ambitious yearning that drove a much smaller number of their fellows to seek higher positions and the responsibilities that went with them. A certain indolence was an integral part of the general psyche of their species; the Goa'uld had originated as parasites and scavengers, making their own comfortable living off the resources and efforts of others. Ambition was the province of a select few, although those who had it in its most extreme form tended to exercise it with a zeal that more than made up for its lack in the majority of their broodmates.

The turnover rate at the bottom of the societal ladder was hastened by the fact that access to sarcophagi was largely — though not universally — governed by an individual's rank and his value to the society in which he functioned. The higher one's rank or value, the more often one might make use of the device to rejuvenate one's host or oneself. In this manner a System Lord could guarantee near-immortality for himself and his inner circle. By contrast, those at the very base of the pyramid that was Goa'uld civilization might see the interior of a sarcophagus no more than once or twice in a lifetime that was instead dependent upon how often one could procure a new host as the current one aged beyond the symbiote's ability to prolong its short human life. Because access to new hosts was also based to some degree upon how well a low-ranking Goa'uld had managed to please its superiors, success in this regard dictated the length of one's life. Please the boss and you might get a new host or access to a sarcophagus when the time came. Fail to do so and you lived only as long as you could maintain your host yourself. Please him well enough, and you might live long enough to reach a position where you were the one with access to the sarcophagus, and in charge of deciding who else could use it. Such was the way of things among the Goa'uld.

This created just enough churn that it was possible for the Tok'ra to insert operatives into a System Lord's hierarchy. The broad base of the social pyramid included enough individuals that it was nearly impossible for them all to be known to the upper ranks. Furthermore, the sometimes fierce competition in the lower ranks just for the basic business of maintaining life often led some disaffected members to leave their natal group and seek their fortunes elsewhere, hoping that by ingratiating themselves to some other Goa'uld they might gain access to whatever resources they'd felt they were being slighted of at home. Sholan's own insertion into Bel's hierarchy had come about in this manner, when he posed as a disgruntled young officer from another domain, bringing just enough information to his prospective new superiors that he was given a chance to prove himself useful in other ways. He'd done so and over time had climbed to the rank of general, becoming a trusted member of Bel's elite Goa'uld military machine.

Thus he had come to be in a position to be summoned today, as on other occasions too numerous now to count — though he could if he wanted — to attend upon the System Lord himself.

He heard the massive doors swing shut behind him as he followed the short, dimly-lit corridor that led to Bel's receiving room. The System Lord's affinity for anachronistic lighting and décor was shared by many high-ranking Goa'uld. He supposed it might stem from nostalgic memories of their early days in power on the world of the Tau'ri, when they'd first induced members of a short-lived race to worship them and eventually follow them outward to the stars and straight into slavery. Sholan's own recollection of those days by way of Egeria's genetic memory, inherited in turn from her own ancestors, included scenes of indecently sybaritic luxury that he found overwhelming, even off-putting. Egeria had felt much the same way, he knew. But the other Goa'uld of her time, and their non-Tok'ra descendants today, obviously saw such decadence as their rightful lot.

It was one more reason he was glad to have been spawned by Egeria, rather than some other queen, regardless of the danger and occasional hardships his role in life entailed.

He entered the receiving room to find Bel reclining on a cushioned chaise, a data tablet in his manicured hands. {"Good afternoon, my Lord,"} he said, bowing. {"I was told you had sent for me."}

Bel looked up from the data tablet. A frown contorted the chiseled face he'd worn for at least three millennia, originally the property of some poor unfortunate soul whose only mistake had been to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and who probably still gibbered in quiet terror in some desolate and nearly-forgotten corner of the otherwise-occupied skull.

{"General Kasol,"} the System Lord said by way of acknowledgement. He gestured at a cushioned bench opposite his chaise. {"Please, join me."}

Sholan moved to the bench and took a seat. {"What may I do for you, my Lord?"}

Bel held up the data tablet, pointing at its screen. {"According to the report I've had from Metan, we've still not seen full production from the mines on Emhain in half a year, since just after that scheming whelp of mine raided the place with his Jaffa disguised to look like my own troops. I'd like to know why."}

Metan was the Minister of Natural Resources. Bel had met this morning with him and several other key officials, according to the dispatches Sholan had received from his own sources within the System Lord's personal staff. It was a dangerous game he played, but at the same time an expected one. Any normal Goa'uld general would be assumed to hedge his bets slightly by maintaining a network of his own spies to keep him abreast of things his Lord might not share with him directly. By doing so, Sholan not only enhanced his own efforts at intelligence, but also played his part even more convincingly. Indeed, he might have appeared suspect if he did _not_ cultivate such sources.

Bel's question made him uncomfortable. Surely the rebels on Emhain weren't drawing off such a large percentage of the mines' output that it ought to raise suspicion, were they? That Albannu commander — Fearghas, that was his name — had to be smarter than that. Furthermore, Sabar certainly was, and Sefys as well. No, this had to be nothing more than Bel's own paranoid nature at work.

{"May I see the report, my Lord?"} Sholan asked, reaching for the tablet.

Bel passed it to him, still frowning. {"Production has been down every month from what is normally expected, according to Metan. Yet I'm told the miners are working full shifts. Either there's ore being siphoned off somewhere, or the miners are slacking."}

Sholan shook his head slowly as he scanned the figures. Locking an innocent expression in place, he looked up and asked, {"But how would anyone siphon off the ore, and why? Moccas came in and simply stole what he took, or at least tried to."}

Bel fixed him with a serious gaze. {"I don't know. Perhaps he's placed some of his own operatives on Emhain to draw off resources for his own ends. I don't trust him; I never should have in the first place. Ought to have culled him the moment he came out of the pouch."}

Inwardly, Sholan breathed a sigh of relief. At least Bel still pinned his suspicions firmly on Moccas, rather than looking elsewhere. For years, Sholan and his colleague Jiru, undercover in another segment of Bel's hierarchy, had labored to convince Bel that none of his worlds any longer harbored thoughts of rebellion, at least not in any organized manner. Thus far, their disinformation campaign still bore fruit. {"My Lord, may I ask why you're discussing this with me?"}

{"I want you to take a squad — Goa'uld, not just Jaffa — and visit Emhain yourself. Pay a visit to each of my worlds, for that matter. But start with Emhain. A show of force reminding the people who is in charge. I'll visit myself once you report to me the conditions on each."}

It was an unusual request. Normally, Bel left such visits to his First Prime and the other Jaffa. Tirin and Lan'ac were more than capable of handling them. {"When do you wish us to make these visits, my Lord?"}

{"That I leave up to you, Kasol, provided you do so within the next month. I want you to tour the mines, the processing facilities, and the major population centers, where there are any. Give them the whole 'Bringer of the wrath of Bel' treatment. Remind them that their god will stand for nothing less than their best. Put some fear into them."} Bel held out his hand for the data tablet.

Sholan ducked his head as he surrendered the device. {"It will be as you wish, my Lord."}

{"Well, then. Dismissed."}

As he exited the inner residence and made his way back up the long corridor that led toward the outside world, Sholan turned the conversation over in his mind. Yes, Bel was paranoid, but he was also hesitant to interact too closely with the human inhabitants of his domain, preferring to delegate such things to his subordinates. He made a yearly visit to each of the five worlds on its annual festival day, appearing at its highest holy place with pomp and splendor to receive tribute and proclaim blessing upon those who served him well and threaten punishment to those who did not… but beyond that, he rarely set foot on them except when some wild urge struck him, which wasn't often. His bad experience several centuries ago had made him reclusive, having narrowly escaped death at the hands of his own offspring — led by Moccas — and disappeared into exile. Upon his return to his domain he had retaken it and while he ruled with an iron hand, his personal visits had grown less frequent with every passing century since then.

It was a good thing for the rebels, of course, and made it easier for Sholan to run interference for them, but secretly he wondered how much longer their luck in this regard would last. Would Bel suddenly decide that in the face of Moccas' predations, it was time to begin taking a more direct hand in dealing with his little empire? How exposed might the human rebels be as a result?

He paused on the plaza that fronted the palace, gazing at the western sky where the sun was already halfway through the descending portion of its daily arc. Arandesed's rooftops gleamed with reflected light, and beyond them the low hills surrounding the city rolled away in hazy greens and golds, the colors of the farmers' fields that supplied the populace with a good portion of their food. He felt the inner pang this sight always brought to his host, knowing that Brice had spent his youth amid Galla's green hills and fertile farmland and still missed home in unguarded moments. {You'll see them soon enough,} he commented.

 _But certainly not the way I'd like,_ Brice responded. _Ah, well. We've a job to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> My deepest apologies for the inordinate amount of time it took me to publish this update. Life has been a bit rough in patches, and quite busy. I spent late April and most of May volunteering as a stagehand for a local community theatre production, which in and of itself ate rather severely into my writing time. On top of that, my father passed away on the middle weekend of the play's run, and I still haven't finished dealing with all the details related to that. Several other things have made demands upon my time as well, and in the midst of the stress and general busyness, I think my Muse decided it was time to take a vacation. Had this been the portion of the story where I already have several chapters written and ready to go, you'd have never noticed a gap... but we're not there yet. The operative word here is YET, however, as I can assure you the route for this tale is firmly mapped out, and we WILL get all the way to the end... and beyond.
> 
> Once again, I thank you all for your patient indulgence.
> 
> \- Ana


	50. The Queen's Gambit

_Consult duty, not events._ — Walter Savage Landor

 

Cromwell mounted the steps of the community building that housed local staff offices of the rebellion, pausing to knock snow off his boots before entering. A fresh blanket of white had greeted him and his Black Wolves that morning as they’d gathered for drill. All through the session, he’d kept expecting to hear some muttered comment from Coll ab Eudef in reference to the weather, their exercises or some other item on the lanky redhead’s personal agenda, which changed daily. By now having grown accustomed to the relaxed discipline of the _Am Rhyddid_ compared to that in the U.S. Air Force, Cromwell had long since taken to outwardly ignoring Coll’s gripes, often while laboring to hide a smile he still couldn’t help but feel was inappropriate on the part of a unit commander, no matter how amusing he might personally find his subordinate’s remarks. He often wondered if this were how Colonel Fielding had felt about Jack O’Neill’s penchant for warped humor during their time with his unit back in the mid-Eighties. He could sympathize with his former CO even more strongly now.

But Coll was absent today and had been for the entire week, along with Brioc ap Llew. The two of them had been part of the current rotation of workers who’d gone to labor in the naquadah mines some twenty klicks north of Llanavon, and were due back later this afternoon.

Bel demanded that his slaves work the naquadah mines, of course. On Tir Awyr, there were several active and inactive or exhausted naquadah mines scattered across the continent on which the planet’s Stargate was located, each surrounded at a moderate distance by Pridanic or Alban settlements. The largest active mine was situated some miles north of the stargate, placing it perhaps twelve miles or so from Llanavon. The Pridani rotated work crews so that mining wouldn’t completely wear down any of their people, and Bel’s underlings and Jaffa didn’t particularly care as long as the naquadah ore got mined in adequate quantities. Mining crewmembers generally only worked for one or two weeks in a rotation, although they might do multiple rotations per year. Most Pridani or Albannu who lived within a 30-mile radius of a naquadah mine worked at least one rotation per year, although neither group sent anyone under the age of eighteen on the work crews.

Cromwell had taken a turn in the mines himself on two occasions, and had to admit he wasn’t looking forward to his next. He was by no means claustrophobic, but he still had memories of an uncomfortable time spent exploring and getting lost in a deep cave system as a very young boy. His older brother Nick had been present and gotten them both out without incident, but Cromwell had little interest in spending more time underground than he had to. He’d since seen the inside of his share of shallower caves as an outdoorsy youth and in a military career that had often sent him on black ops into tricky territory. As far as he was concerned, that was plenty for him.

Satisfied that he wouldn’t be tracking snow through the building, he made his way inside, angling toward the fireplace in the main hall and the steaming kettle that hung near the flames. A cup of tea would be just the thing to counter the chill of the wintry air before he retreated to his office to complete the week’s reports. _At least there’s a lot less paperwork with this outfit than I had on Earth with the 121 st,_ he reflected. The chain of command here went just one step above him, to Cadogan, and anything needing to be shared with other units or the quartermaster’s office went via Gerlad or direct from Cadogan himself.

It was all so simple here. He could have done his paperwork at home, using the writing desk he kept in the corner of the cottage he and Tesni shared, but he’d been assigned an office here when he’d accepted command of the Wolves, and he figured he might as well use it at least some of the time. Besides, if any of his men or his fellow team leaders wished to speak with him, keeping some semblance of regular office hours was helpful. He’d lately taken to spending a couple of hours there each day immediately before or after drill; outside of those hours, he knew he was easy enough to find either at home, at Bennaeth Bod, or at work on any of the myriad communal chores and activities shared by all of the village’s inhabitants.

He’d barely gotten settled in his office with his tea — _I still wish this planet had coffee,_ he mused— after having exchanged a few perfunctory words with the commanders of two of the other local units, when there came a knock on the doorframe. He looked up to find Brioc there, looking haggard. Rock dust and melting snow matted his brown hair, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

“ _Filwriad_ , I’ve just come from the mines, and we have a problem,” the younger man said without preamble.

Cromwell tried to quell the sinking feeling in his gut. “What is it?”

“Coll’s been jailed. He’s being held under Jaffa guard.”

 

***

 

Sholan pressed the final glyph on the _ta'khet_ and watched as the event horizon formed with a _kawoosh_ before settling into the familiar rippling surface that indicated a stable wormhole. Turning, he motioned his mixed Goa’uld and Jaffa troops forward toward the _chappa’ai_. Their visits to Emhain and then to Galla had been fairly routine… and thoroughly sickening, if Sholan admitted his innermost reaction. Not that he would ever let that reaction prevent his carrying out his duty; he was far too experienced in undercover operations for that. Still, the visceral reaction persisted — aided and amplified, no doubt, by that of his host.

Emhain had offered its own discomforts for them both, but addressing the population of Galla’s largest mining district as ‘General Kasol’s’ Goa’uld officers and the Jaffa under their purview went from house to house rounding up stragglers who had demonstrated insufficient alacrity in gathering to attend the emissary of their god had been the most difficult for Brice. Several faces in the crowd bore the stamp of his own family. Although none who had known him as a young man still lived here, their children and grandchildren still farmed the land and worked the mines. No Goa’uld would have noticed the resemblance, Sholan knew. Their minds simply didn’t extend to seeing humans that way, nor anyone else. Physical similarities of kinship were something beyond the Goa’uld’s sphere of interest or experience — immaterial in their hosts and virtually nonexistent among the overwhelming hordes of larvae spawned by queens in what had begun as an evolutionary response to the harsh environment of their species’ world of origin.

But Brice knew these people for family, blood of his blood, and had to suffer the effects of seeing them terrorized by warriors wearing the mark of Bel, or berated by the words of his own symbiote. Not that it was truly easy for Sholan to speak thus, but it was part of his job, an unfortunate necessity of maintaining the role that allowed them close access to Bel and his court, and the chance to safeguard the rebellion by assuring the System Lord that no such thing in fact existed. Brice knew this as well, but Sholan could feel the man’s heart break for his people.

As they moved to follow the troops through the _chappa’ai_ , Sholan soothed his host silently. {Remember, the Gallaeci are strong… and we carry out Bel’s orders only so that by doing his bidding we are able to further the rebellion itself.}

 _I know that,_ said Brice in the silent mindspeech they shared. _But thank you for reminding me anyway. I know this isn’t a whole lot easier on you than it is on me._

Their destination now was Bohan, to report to Bel. After that, Sholan planned to pay a visit to Bel’s other two worlds — Tir Awyr and Arverenem — in the next few days. The rippling surface of the event horizon loomed up at him as he approached. After pausing to draw one more deep breath of Galla’s fresh spring air, he stepped through.

 

***

 

“Do we know why he was taken into custody?” asked Cadogan.

After Brioc delivered the initial news of Coll’s capture, Cromwell had ushered the man into one of his guest chairs and sent someone to Bennaeth Bod to fetch the _cadlywydd_. Brioc was obviously exhausted; he’d run as much of the way from the mine complex as he could manage and walked the remainder without stopping to rest, he said. While waiting for Cadogan, the colonel had brought his subordinate a mug of tea and a bannock from the tray generally kept in the common room, then fought the impulse to quiz the man right there and then about every detail of what had happened. _No, better he should tell his tale once, for Cadogan and myself together,_ he reasoned, though impatience nearly got the better of him before the _cadlywydd_ showed up barely five minutes after Cromwell first dispatched the runner. Now Cadogan occupied the other guest chair, having refused the colonel’s offer of his own more comfortable seat.

At the _cadlywydd_ ’s question, Brioc set his mug down on Cromwell’s desk, though he kept his hands wrapped around its warm surface. Steam from the tea within rose before his face, parting as he exhaled noisily. “Not really. I was working in an upper gallery overlooking the main concourse in that new section they opened about a year ago. I was picking at the ore seam and heard some sort of commotion going on below, but I didn’t look at first. You know how you’re so busy with what you’re doing that you really can’t let yourself be distracted?  Not to mention the foreman for the gang I was assigned to isn’t one of us, if you get my meaning. He can be pretty harsh, and I don’t think he was having a good day.”

Cromwell nodded. He’d run across one or two individuals like that during his own stints at the mine. “So when exactly did you realize the incident involved Coll?”

“Well, at first the only voices I was hearing belonged to Jaffa, and I wanted to keep my nose out of whatever that was about. Keeping my head down, you know? But then I heard Coll talk back to one of them. Couldn’t quite make out what he said over the shouting, and it was the first I knew he was even involved. _That_ made me look, but all I saw was a couple of Jaffa grab him and haul him off down a side tunnel. There was another guy on the floor, holding his ankle, with a couple loads of scrap rock — you know, those big pails they have us carry to the carts? — kind of scattered around like somebody dropped them.”

Brioc paused to brush a lock of matted hair from his forehead, where it was dripping snowmelt into his eyes in the warmth of the colonel’s office. “Anyway, while I was trying to see which way the Jaffa took Coll, someone came and helped the other guy up and half-carried him off toward the break area where we get our meals when we’re underground. Cook keeps a sort of first-aid kit there. I don’t know if the one with the bad ankle got hurt by the Jaffa or what, though. You know how Coll makes those remarks of his. It’s possible he could have said something that the Jaffa overheard and didn’t like, and the other guy just got in the way. Of course, for all I know the other guy got hurt somehow and Coll was trying to help him and the Jaffa didn’t take kindly to it. Coll would still try though, you know? Well, not that any of us wouldn’t, I mean.”

“And you didn’t get a chance to find out exactly what started all of this?” Cadogan asked the question gently, but the note of concern in his voice was unmistakable. Cromwell knew it was aimed at more than just Coll’s safety, although that was certainly one priority.

Brioc shook his head. “Not really. I didn’t get to see any more just then, because the foreman came along and ordered us all back to work, me and the two other guys who’d been watching. I asked, but neither of them saw any more than I did. I found out when I came off-shift that the Jaffa had tossed Coll in a cell down on one of the older levels, but that’s all I know.”

Cromwell could see the worry in Brioc’s eyes as he told his story. The colonel knew that Coll and Brioc were the closest of friends, much as Reiker and Warfield had been in the 121st, or even himself and Jack over their long years spent serving together. Having to leave his best friend behind in an underground cell guarded by Jaffa had to be tearing at the man before him, and Cromwell could sympathize all too well.

“Well, we can hope that he wasn’t taken on suspicion of anything beyond simple disobedience,” Cadogan mused aloud. “If that’s the case it’s obviously a good thing, but either way we can’t just leave him in the Jaffa’s hands. He’s one of our own, for starters, and he’s also a strong man in his prime. That means there’s a chance he might be passed along to Bel’s Goa’uld as potential host, and if a symbiote were to actually query his memories — unlikely, as the Goa’uld generally care nothing for the mind of the host, but not impossible — we’d be in a world of trouble given what he knows.”

 _Shit; that’s what I was afraid of._ Cromwell slammed a fist down on the desk in frustration, making his own mug jump and spilling tea on the cover of the diptych resting beside it. As he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe up the liquid he said, “Well then, by thunder, let’s get him out of there.”

“We will,” Cadogan assured him. “We obviously can’t just go in and drag him out under the noses of the Jaffa, though. I want to send someone in to get a feel for the situation, determine just what happened and report back so we’ll know what we’re dealing with. Even I don’t know the layout of the security levels of the mining complex; I’ve never been in them, and I haven’t worked a crew rotation since before I blended with Sabar.”

“So who do we send?” asked the colonel.

“I’d like to send Tesni,” replied Cadogan. “She’s our best covert operator when it comes to reconnaissance.”

Cromwell boggled at him. “Are you crazy? When we’ve had one of our people captured already? Out of the question.”

The _cadlywydd_ fixed him with an earnest look. “Neirin, she’s our best operative, and the Goa’uld tend to discount women as any sort of threat. She’s far more likely to get the information we need than anyone else, and far less likely to get into trouble doing it.”

“I am not letting you send my wife in there under these circumstances.” The colonel’s voice was firm.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, _filwriad_ ,” said Brioc apologetically. “But Tesni was on the list for one of the next two rotations anyway, so…” He trailed off under the withering glare his CO turned on him.

“Brioc,” said Cromwell, in the low tone he reserved for those times when he knew that to adopt any other would reveal exactly how close he was to losing his cool. “Go home and get some rest. We’re going to get Coll out, but if you want to help, I’ll need you to be fully functional.”

Brioc stood, his face pale. “Yes, sir.” He drained his mug and left.

When he’d gone, Cadogan spoke again. “Neirin, not only is Tesni the best person for the job, but this isn’t your decision to make. For one thing, she’s under my direct command, not yours. For another, while I won’t order her to do this — if she takes the mission it will be as a volunteer — the decision is hers. I don’t know how marriages work on your world, but — ”

The colonel interrupted, something he hadn’t done to a superior officer in a very long time. “Cadogan, it isn’t that, and I hope you know it.”

“Then what is it?” The unspoken challenge was clear from the _cadlywydd_ ’s tone.

Cromwell paused, considering. Before Tesni, he’d never been married to another member of the military, though he’d long since grown accustomed to the fact that she, like himself, was under orders in the _Am Rhyddid_. He’d even dealt — he thought — quite well with her occasional absence for a day or two as she carried out intelligence-gathering missions. What was it that made this situation different?

The answer, of course, was that Tesni’s other missions in the time he’d known her hadn’t taken her into a situation where a direct confrontation with Bel’s Jaffa was likely, at least not with them already potentially ill-disposed toward the local population as they might be at present. Going up against an enemy was _his_ job… did it have to be hers, too? _Dammit, I was never the one who was supposed to have to worry about things like that… I was the one who was supposed to go out and deal with whatever problem there was and kick its ass to kingdom come, while Lisa stayed safely at home._

_But Tesni isn’t Lisa…_

Belatedly he realized that Cadogan was speaking again. “Neirin, I didn’t mean that to sound the way it probably did. But I still want to ask Tesni if she’s willing to take the mission.”

The colonel knew Cadogan was right, just as he knew what Tesni’s answer would be. “Go ahead and ask her,” he said hollowly. “But my Wolves and I are going with her as backup. We can station ourselves just beyond the mine complex, in hiding, and Tesni will take one of the short-range communicators with her. I’ll have one as well, and if she so much as thinks there’s about to be trouble, she needs to call us in to handle it.”

The _cadlywydd_ shook his head. “I don’t want to risk sending a communicator with her. If she’s found in possession of one, it’ll be clear that she’s a spy and that there’s an organization around with access to technology and the means to use it. She’ll have more deniability without one, even if something does happen, and so will the _Am Rhyddid_.”

 _Shit._ Cadogan was right about that too. “Well, then, we need to set up a system where I’ll have reports by messenger every couple of hours. The messenger doesn’t come, or brings bad news; we go in.”

The _cadlywydd_ nodded. “Maybe not every two hours, but we’ll do our best set up something that will let her make reports on a regular schedule that won’t interfere with the work the Jaffa will believe she’s there to do as a crew member. You’ve worked those crews yourself; you know how the place operates. So does Tesni.”

Cromwell drummed his fingers on the desk. “Fair enough, I suppose. But I want to be on record as saying that I still don’t like this.”

“Duly noted.” Cadogan nodded again. “Right, then. Let’s go and talk to her.”

 


	51. Into Harm's Way

_Of all those in the army close to the commander none is more intimate than the secret agent._ — Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

 

They found Tesni in the great room at Bennaeth Bod, where Cadogan had left her helping Idris organize work rosters for the coming spring planting, now only a month or so away. One end of the long dining table was spread with papers and open diptychs. Idris left off reading names from the big ledger containing a record of everyone who currently lived in the village as they entered.

Cadogan dropped into a seat at his nephew’s elbow and swiftly explained the situation as Neirin paced restlessly before the front windows. He had scarcely finished outlining what he wanted Tesni to do when she answered, “Yes, of course, Uncle. How soon do you want me to leave?”

Cadogan glanced over his shoulder to Neirin, who had paused in mid-circuit and now stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching his wife’s eyes. Turning back to his niece, he said, “I want you to know this isn’t an order, Tesni. If you’re volunteering, that’s one thing, but I’ll understand if you’d rather I send someone else.”

Tesni’s eyes had followed his own, and remained locked on her husband as she said, “I understand that, Uncle, but I am volunteering to take this mission.” Cadogan watched her face as some unspoken message passed between herself and Neirin. She gestured then, motioning toward the seat next to her. “Oh, do come and sit down, Nye. We’re going to tackle this together, so let’s get our plans in place.”

Neirin joined them, visibly striving to banish any expression of the reluctance he so clearly felt. “You’re sure about this?” he asked her.

“Neirin.” She said nothing but his name, her face a study in tender exasperation.

He stared back for a moment, then blinked, squaring his shoulders and shrugging them as if the woolen tunic he wore were suddenly tight. “Right,” he said at last, then turned to Cadogan. “Let’s have this plan.”

Cadogan dispatched Idris to retrieve a fresh diptych from his study. “You may as well fetch my data tablet, too,” he called toward his nephew’s retreating back.

Standing, he moved to the sideboard and poured two fresh cups of tea from the jacketed pot that stood there, safely out of the clutter that occupied the table. Returning to the table, he deposited one in front of Neirin, then cleared aside the papers Tesni and her brother had been using. The planting roster could wait. “Neirin and his Wolves will be your backup,” he told Tesni, “and I have in mind to send Ceinwen verch Dilys as the go-between. The next rotation of crew are scheduled to go to the mine tomorrow, and sending you in with them is the best option, since it will seem routine and you shouldn’t attract any undue attention that way.”

Tesni nodded, reaching to clasp Neirin’s hand where it rested on the table next to her own. “That makes sense. I’d like to suggest equipping Ceinwen and Nye with communicators. That way even if the weather turns foul, there won’t be any delay in reporting and she won’t have to spend as much time going back and forth in it.”

Cadogan nodded. “That was my thought as well. I wouldn’t dare send one in with you, although I would if I thought it wouldn’t increase risks all the way around.”

“No, you’re right about that,” Tesni assured him. She glanced at her husband and squeezed his hand. “I can meet Ceinwen frequently if she’s stationed just outside the perimeter near the far end of the miner’s camp, where the women’s facilities are. The terrain there is rocky, with brush and plenty of places for cover, so she won’t have to go too far away to get out of sight and use her communicator. It’s winter; with a hooded cloak she’ll appear to be just another female miner stepping out to answer to nature at the beginning or end of a shift.”

“Meaning you’ll report in every eight hours?” Neirin still looked unhappy as he asked the question, but at least he was cooperating like the professional he so obviously was. Not that Cadogan had truly expected less, once the logistics of the situation had fully sunk in.

“Yes. You know how the shift schedules work there: eight hours belowground, eight up top in the sorting house, eight for dinner and sleep.” Tesni looked up as Idris returned, his arms laden with the items Cadogan had requested. He placed them on the table, in the space Cadogan had cleared, then resumed his seat.

“I take it my sister’s first order of business will be to find out why Coll was jailed,” he said. “What will you do if it turns out he’s suspected of plotting rebellion?”

Cadogan pursed his lips. “I’m holding out hope it isn’t anything like that at all,” he said. “Based on what little Brioc was able to tell us, it appears more likely that he either made some sarcastic comment in the hearing of a Jaffa guard who didn’t take kindly to it, or else that he was punished for stopping work to help an injured man and angered them that way. But there’s only one way to find out for sure, which is why we’re sending Tesni in to learn what she can.”

“And if I find they do suspect?” asked Tesni. “How shall I proceed?”

He massaged his forehead. _Sabar, that question is for you as much as it is for me. Care to answer it?_

{We aren’t ready yet for all-out war, I know that much,} the symbiote replied silently. { _Mai’tac!_ And I don’t suppose we have time to go to Caer Ynys and call a Council meeting tonight, either.}

_If we have to, we have to._

{What, fight a war? Or call a Council meeting?}

Three faces were looking at him expectantly, and Cadogan felt the weight of the world settle upon his shoulders. Fivefold, in fact, since any open hostilities on Tir Awyr would almost certainly have repercussions across Bel’s entire domain. “Let’s just say that Sabar and I are reviewing the situation and our options. We’ll probably need to travel to Caer Ynys and meet with the Tok’bel Council tonight or tomorrow.”

{Actually, it might be best if we save that until we have a better idea of what the situation really is,} Sabar suggested. {Contingency plans are one thing, but panic is another and I’m of a mind to say I’d rather go into any meeting with more information than we have right now.}

 _Good point._ Aloud, Cadogan said, “For right now, I want to focus on getting the intelligence. If we’re compromised, we’ll have to do damage control at least. But if we’re not, or at least not yet, then the focus shifts to getting Coll out of there without changing that.”

Neirin’s expression grew even more serious. “You make it sound as if we won’t be getting him out if the Jaffa have already twigged to the possibility that he’s part of an organized rebel movement.”

The burden on Cadogan’s shoulders grew even heavier. “If that’s the case, Neirin, we might not be able to.”

 

***

 

Dim light greeted his vision as he opened his eyes. His body ached, bruised from its impact with the wall as the Jaffa had thrown him bodily into this cell.

Coll gathered the threadbare blanket more tightly around himself, trying to ward off the chill air. He estimated he’d been here for a day and a half, perhaps two days. In that time he’d seen another being only thrice, when a Jaffa guard would bring him a meager portion of food, empty the slop bucket, and refill the oil reservoir in the lamp that burned in its niche in the wall of the corridor, opposite the bars of his cell door.

It was hard to keep track of time underground, though the fact that his stomach had begun to growl indicated that it had been several hours since his last meal. It was quiet down here, too; he was apparently the only prisoner occupying the detention area. What that meant, he could scarcely guess. The contingent of miners from Llanavon had been due to be released from their labors less than two days after he’d been taken, and he wondered whether they’d returned home yet. Coll imagined the reactions of his wife and son at his absence from the group… and _filwriad_ Neirin’s probable reaction as well.

There were footfalls in the corridor, the sound of Jaffa boots on stone growing closer…

 

***

 

Cromwell fiddled with the stylus, tapping it against the frame of the diptych in which he’d been inscribing notes. After the initial briefing downstairs in the manor’s great room, he and Cadogan had retreated to the latter’s study to work on their plans for the Wolves’ part of the mission in more detail. He watched as Cadogan poured more tea into his mug from the fresh pot he’d made, then paused with the pot poised over the colonel’s, a questioning look on his face.

“Sure, go ahead. Thanks.”

The _cadlywydd_ filled Cromwell’s mug, then set down the pot and gestured at a point on the map he’d spread between them on the end of conference table, where it caught the wan winter sunlight from one of the room’s glazed windows. “All right, you’ll be able to hole up here with little likelihood of detection. That puts you just about a mile from the mine complex, within easy reach of Ceinwen as she carries messages, and close enough to get there quickly if you’re needed.”

Cromwell peered at the map, tapping his finger on the spot Cadogan indicated. “Isn’t that the strange rock formation in that one hillside just off the main road?”

Cadogan nodded. “It’s actually the head of an old abandoned pilot works put in when there was a push on to expand the mine complex, before it was discovered that reaching the ore from that direction would be complicated by the presence of an aquifer feeding some of the warm springs in the area. That’s why everything remains concentrated at the main site, because the tunnels there bypass the branch of the aquifer. I’ve seen charts of what’s underground in that area, courtesy of a Tok’bel operative who was able to liberate copies from the office of Bel’s minister of resources.”

“You’re telling me we’ll be hiding out in a cave.” The colonel suppressed the urge to sigh. “All right then. It puts us in close range, which is all I care about.”

He sipped at his tea, then glanced down at the mug. “How long did you let this steep, anyway? It has almost an astringent aftertaste.” He was used to the mint-based blend of tea that Tesni preferred and generally brewed, which they’d been drinking downstairs. It had a more delicate flavor than what he’d just been given, although the two were similar.

Cadogan cleared his throat. “Ah, I should have warned you. This isn’t what I usually make when you and I are sharing. You’ve got my daily tonic there.”

The colonel looked askance at his cup. “I suppose that explains the medicinal taste.”

Cadogan chuckled. “I forgot about that part, since I scarcely notice it anymore. Sorry about that.”

“No, no… It actually isn’t bad. Just not quite what I’d been expecting, that’s all.” Cromwell turned his attention back to the map. “So we’ll head out there just behind the mining party, and make camp in the cave. I hate the idea of being stuck without a fire, but I don’t think we’ll dare to build one for fear of advertising our presence.”

“Actually, if you’re careful you can probably manage one if you go far enough back inside, so the light of it isn’t visible from outside. I’ve been in there before, years ago with Nenniaw and Gerlad when we were scouting some possible places to cache weapons and the like, and several yards in from the entrance the passage curves and then widens. There’s a side chamber there, and a spot in the ceiling that functions as kind of a natural chimney. After dark, which is when you’d need a fire most anyway for warmth, no one passing by would notice smoke rising from the hillside. Even if someone were to see it during the day and check, you can simply pose as a hunting party. They’ve been known to camp there on occasion.”

“All right then. We’ll just have to make sure we bring the appropriate weapons and tools along to carry out that particular charade.” Cromwell sipped again at his tea, finding the aftertaste less noticeable now that he was expecting it. “How’s Ceinwen going to handle her situation?”

In answer, the _cadlywydd_ rose and moved to where a large chest sat beneath one of the study’s windows. “The Tok’bel have small crystalline devices called _net’ik_ that can generate enough heat to keep a person warm even in subfreezing temperatures,” he explained, lifting the lid and rummaging within. “I have one myself, and I’m going to send it with Ceinwen, since she’ll be in a position where she won’t be able to build a fire.” He withdrew a fabric-wrapped object perhaps eight inches by four and carried it back to the table after shutting the chest.

“Ah.” Cromwell tucked his stylus back into its slot and closed the diptych, watching with interest as Cadogan undid the wrapping. The _net’ik_ resembled a brick-shaped piece of translucent amber with rounded edges, gathering and holding light near its surface, while its depths seemed murky. The _cadlywydd_ tapped each of its four long surfaces in a sequence, and the interior of the device began to glow with a soft orange light.

At a gesture from his friend, Cromwell reached out to lay a hand on the device, feeling its surface grow warm. It stabilized at a comfortable temperature after a moment. “Seems the Tok’bel have thought of everything.”

Cadogan smiled. “Well, we — they, I should say, though as a host I’m as much a part of their society as Sabar is — anyway, the Tok’ra have been running operations in all kinds of environments for centuries. We’ve got the technology to do a lot of things, and we Tok’bel aren’t afraid to deploy some of it here either. Perhaps more so than the other Tok’ra, or at least differently.”

Now _that_ was interesting. Cadogan rarely talked about his symbiote’s more mainstream cousins, and Cromwell had carefully avoided the subject himself, unsure of how it would be received or to what extent their existence was even known among the various human cultures that littered the Milky Way. Unwilling to invite more curiosity about his own origins, he had left the topic of Tok’ra/Tok’bel relations strictly alone in conversations with the _cadlywydd_ unless the latter brought it up. Even given this current instance, the colonel could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times the subject had been mentioned, and he was still puzzling out exactly what it was that set the Tok’bel apart.

There was a knock. Cromwell looked up to see Tesni framed by the doorway, her hand poised against the oaken door that Cadogan habitually left open except when a full staff meeting was in session. “I’ve just come from speaking with Ceinwen,” she said, making her way across the room to join them at the table. “She’s prepared to leave at first light along with the rest of the mining crew. We have our plans in place for me to make reports, and everything’s ready on our end.”

Cadogan tapped the _net’ik_ ’s sides in sequence again and passed the device to Tesni, along with its wrappings. “Give this to Ceinwen in the morning. You know how to use it, so show her before you set off, and bid her carry it in her rucksack.”

Tesni nodded. “I will.” She turned to Cromwell. “I’ll see you at home in a while, then?”

“Once I’ve finished here and then briefed my men.” He reached out to take her hand, squeezing it gently. “Go and do what you need to do.”

He spent a few more moments with Cadogan after Tesni left, before the _cadlywydd_ dismissed him to see to his men. “I know you have a lot on your mind, Neirin, but get some sleep tonight,” urged Cadogan. “Remember what you told Brioc? You don’t need me to tell  you the same thing.”

“No, you’re right. I am going to pay a visit to Nerys before I call it a day, though.” Nerys was Coll’s wife, and duty compelled the colonel to assure her personally that every effort was being made to bring him home safely. With a twinge, he remembered the last time he’d made a promise like that, immediately after learning that Jack had survived and was being held prisoner by the Iraqis. Sara had known he’d do everything he could. _If only General West had let me..._

With an effort, he stopped his mind from racing down that track of speculation as he levered himself out of the chair, suddenly weary. _That was ten years ago,_ he reminded himself sternly, and this time he had the full support of his commanding officer, rather than the cold indifference exhibited by West. Cadogan regarded his men as family, not expendable ciphers, and that meant Coll would be coming home alive and well if there were any possible means to accomplish it.

“Would you like me to come with you?” Cadogan’s offer caught Cromwell off-guard and he blinked, meeting the _cadlywydd_ ’s eyes and seeing there the same concern he knew must surely be visible in his own.

He considered. On the one hand, having Cadogan along might be helpful, and he certainly appreciated his CO’s support. On the other… “This is something I have to do myself.” He caught himself shrugging, trying to ease his shoulders as though the burden of responsibility were a physical one, bearing him down beneath its weight. “Coll is under my direct command, and… ” He struggled suddenly, casting about for the words to frame what was churning within his mind.

Cadogan waved him off. “I understand, Neirin. I’ll probably visit her myself this evening, but you do what you need to on your own. It may be just as well if she receives two visits, anyway. This can’t be easy for her, nor for Bryn and Olwen.”

Cromwell nodded, relieved at his friend’s understanding. “Thank you. By your leave, then?” He took a step toward the doorway.

“Go on. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

***

 

As expected, the Wolves had been ready to march to the mine complex on a moment’s notice and free Coll by force. Brioc was in attendance despite the shadows beneath his eyes, and told his story to his teammates. Cromwell finished by laying out the plan he and Cadogan had devised, then ordering all of them to get a good night’s sleep in preparation for the morrow. Brioc he took aside after dismissing the rest, and walked him to the doorstep of the home he shared with his wife Creirwy and their children. “Get to bed. I’m going to need you at your best come morning.”

He clasped Brioc’s shoulder, then turned away in the direction of Coll’s home, still pondering what to say. His boots made a crunching sound in the ice-rimed snow as he cut across the square in the gathering dusk, and his thoughts whirled with a mixture of scenes. Some originated in decade-old memory, while others were the product of imagination regarding the Jaffa’s motives in imprisoning Coll.

Nerys’ face was pale when she answered his knock. “ _Filwriad_ Neirin. Please, come in.”

Cromwell let himself be ushered into the house, taking care to wipe the snow from his boots before stepping off the mat. “Nerys, I — ”

He was interrupted by Bryn, who looked up from the hearthrug where he sat with his younger sister and the puppy Cromwell knew they’d named Gwyli, shortened from _gwyliwr_ , meaning ‘sentinel’. It was a good name for a watchdog. “ _Filwriad_ , my father is all right, isn’t he?”

Cromwell’s gut clenched as Charlie’s words played again in his mind. _My daddy’s going to be okay, isn’t he, Uncle Frank?_ Charlie had been five years old to Bryn’s nine, but the look on Bryn’s face could have come straight from Charlie's. Cromwell had reassured his best friend’s son ten years ago… and he’d been right, even if he’d been denied the chance to be the instrument of Jack’s return. Charlie’s father had come home alive and as well as the Air Force’s medical and psychiatric staff could make him, even if events had cost Cromwell Jack’s friendship until nearly three years after Charlie’s death…

Savagely, he pushed the memory aside, moving to kneel on the hearthrug where the red-haired boy sat with a brindled puppy and a wide-eyed four-year old girl. “Bryn, we’re going to do everything we can to make sure that he comes home safe. Me, and the rest of the Wolves. We’re leaving at dawn, and I promise you, if we can get him out of there we’re going to do it.”

Glancing up, he saw that Nerys had moved to the fireside, watching him. “Thank you, Neirin,” she said, her voice calm. He could see the tension in her eyes, and wondered what that steadiness of voice cost her. Sara had been the same way, wearing a veneer of stoicism for the sake of her son, but with her concern and worry evident to Cromwell despite his reassurances. “I know you’ll do the best you can, you and the others.”

He felt like a supplicant, kneeling there before her with the burden of this family’s future on his shoulders. It wasn’t his fault that Coll had been jailed; the man had been active in the rebel cause for years before Cromwell’s arrival on this world. Nevertheless, Coll was his responsibility now, and he would make every effort to see that Nerys had her husband back safely, and the children their father.

“We will, ma’am. You have my word.” He stood, bearing the weight of their gaze. “Is there anything you need right now?”

Nerys shook her head. “No, we’ll be all right, Neirin. I know you must have things to do, plans to make… ” She trailed off for a moment before continuing. “Go and do what you have to do, and don’t worry about us.”

Somehow any answer he might make seemed insufficient. He managed a nod, clasping her shoulder before moving toward the door. “We’ll bring him back,” he said.

She nodded in response. “I know.”

 

Outside, the shadows had deepened in the few moments he’d spent with Coll’s family. Cromwell made his way along the street by lamplight spilled from the windows of those houses fortunate enough to have glazing, turning at last onto the walk that led to his and Tesni’s cottage. Here, too, lamplight from within cast golden pools upon the snow in the dooryard. The cottage might not be the largest, nor nearly as well-appointed as Bennaeth Bod, but the woman who lived here was sister to one chieftain and niece to another, and so its front windows boasted glass panes.

He paused, watching as Tesni moved before one window, folding a traveling cloak — the same grey-plaid one she’d worn on their visit to Dinas Coedwyg the day after he arrived. Tomorrow, his wife would go to the mines not just as a laborer but as a spy, and into a situation fraught with who-knew-what kind of danger, depending on the circumstances surrounding Coll’s imprisonment. The thought chilled him in a way none of her previous missions had ever managed to do. As he stood there musing on that fact, Tesni looked up and noticed him. A moment later, the front door opened. “Why are you standing around in the snow? Come in and have dinner.”

 

***

 

The eastern sky was paling to grey as false dawn lit the overcast, but torches and lanterns were still a necessity. Cromwell finished lighting a lantern and hung it on its hook, then rubbed his hands together in the chill air as he turned to Tesni, who was showing Ceinwen how to use the _net’ik_. The device was glowing now, and he reached out to warm his fingers against its smooth surface.

Tesni smiled briefly, the expression wiping the tension from her face for a moment. “Where are your gloves, _cariad_?”

“In my pocket. I just want to get my hands warm before I put them back on.” Cromwell estimated the temperature to be somewhere in the upper twenties Fahrenheit; below freezing but not far below. Winter might only have a month to go, but that didn’t mean it was going to relax its frozen grip any sooner than necessary.

Satisfied that his fingers were warm enough, he withdrew them from the device’s surface and began pulling on his gloves. There were footsteps behind him, and a moment later he heard Cadogan’s voice. “Is everyone ready to go?”

Ceinwen tapped the _net’ik_ to deactivate it, then swaddled it once more in its wrappings before stowing it in her rucksack and hoisting the pack to her shoulders. “Yes sir, I’m ready,” she said.

“So am I,” added Tesni. “We’re just waiting for the rest of the mining contingent, and the sunrise.”

“My men and I will set out half an hour behind them,” said Cromwell.

“Better make it closer to an hour,” the _cadlywydd_ suggested. “The miners’ cart isn’t likely to move terribly fast along a winter road, and your Wolves cover ground pretty quickly. If you want to appear as just a hunting party rather than catching up to and mixing with the miners, you’ll need to give yourself some distance.”

Cromwell nodded, even though the idea of waiting any longer chafed. Cadogan was right; although traversable by carts and wagons in wintertime, the road would nevertheless dictate a slower pace, while his men were trained to move quickly whether mounted or on foot. They’d be on foot for this mission. “That makes sense, I suppose. Very well, then; we’ll wait an hour.”

The sun made a bright spot behind the cloud layer just above the horizon as the miners set out some fifteen minutes later, the draft horses’ harness jingling in the frosty air. Cromwell watched as the cart disappeared around a bend in the forest road, the turned to find Armagil at his elbow. “Did you need something?” he asked his second-in-command.

“No, sir,” replied the younger man. “I just came to tell you that the others are ready and awaiting your orders.”

Cromwell turned away from the village gate, drawing his young _rhaglaw_ with him. “At the moment, we’re holding for an hour on the _cadlywydd_ ’s order. We need to give the mining party time to make the main road and get a head start, then we can masquerade a lot better as a hunting party. In the meantime, we can enjoy the warmth of indoors while we have it, I suppose.”

An hour later, they were on the road, clothed and armed as typical late-winter hunters out for game to supplement the villagers’ diet. Had anyone been watching, they wouldn’t have noticed the _zat’nik’tel_ s carefully hidden beneath cloak and coat, nor the short-range, encrypted communicator Cromwell carried in his belt pouch. He bore a quiver of arrows and a longbow strapped to his back, as did his men, and was grateful for having taken the time to re-familiarize himself with bowhunting the previous autumn. The disguise was not without true function, either, as they would be reliant on game for much of their sustenance while waiting what could be several days for their next move, once they were in position.

 

***

 

Cadogan stretched his legs beneath the desk and tapped a control on the data pad in his hands. Information scrolled across its screen in Tok’ra script, and he added an annotation here and there at Sabar’s prompting. After eight decades together they worked in such a seamless partnership that Sabar was just as likely to leave his host in control of their shared body while doing recordkeeping and other work, and merely dictate, especially when they were on Cadogan’s homeworld.

He reached for the mug of tea that rested on the blotter and took a sip. Now that he’d been so recently reminded of it by Neirin, he caught the slight astringency in its flavor. He’d been drinking this particular blend daily for well over thirty years and scarcely noticed the taste anymore. {Neither do I,} Sabar admitted.

There was loud knocking from below, followed by the sound of the front door opening and excited voices, one of them Anwen’s. A moment later, footsteps clattered on the stairs. {A messenger already?} Sabar wondered silently.

_Not from the mines; it can’t be. They’ve only been gone five hours. That’s barely enough time to get there and get set up. Certainly not enough for Tesni to have any real news yet, surely?_

A young woman appeared in the doorway; Cadogan recognized her as one of the scouts who still watched the compass circle, hiding just inside the woods to observe who came and went via the _chappa’ai_. She was out of breath, panting as if she’d run the entire way from the circle. “Come in, sit down,” he ordered, rising from behind his desk and crossing to guide her into the room and settle her in a chair. “Deep breath; that’s it. Now another.”

She drew a third shaky breath before uttering, “News.”

“What news?”

A fourth breath, held just long enough to steady her, and she blurted out, “Goa’uld, I think. Three of them. And five Jaffa. They’re on their way here.”


	52. The Serpent's Mouth

_Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak._ ― Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

 

Seated on the rocky ground with the bottom of his cloak tucked firmly beneath him, Cromwell leaned against the rough stone wall, gazing out at the winter landscape. For just a fleeting moment he wished he had a cigarette, then shook off the thought. He hadn’t thought about smoking in well over a year, and hadn’t actually done so in more than a year and a half, since he’d fallen through the stargate.

The only reason it even crossed his mind now, he knew, was that he was worried. And he was waiting for something to happen. Used to be that whenever he got stuck waiting and worrying, he’d have a smoke and try to take his mind off whatever was stressing him. Not that it had ever really worked, of course, although just having something to do with his hands helped. The comfortable, familiar routine of packet and cigarette and lighter, that first satisfying puff… It was ritual, pure and simple, and he knew it, but it was a ritual that he’d used for years to ground and center himself. Just like in Iraq, when he and Jack had waited — interminably, it seemed — for their team to get sent into action. Just like at Ramstein, waiting for what he’d thought would be the tinderbox of Kosovo lighting up but had instead morphed into the 121st’s transfer back stateside, assigned to provide backup for the SGC should the shit ever truly hit the fan. And just like at Peterson, waiting for it to do so, as he’d known it inevitably would. It had all been just a matter of time.

He shook his head to dispel the reverie, resuming his vigil over the frozen landscape beyond the mouth of the cave. Pilot works, abandoned mineshaft… call it what you would, it was still a cave as far as he was concerned. He’d been in his share of them over the years, and wasn’t a fan. The sense of unease left over from his first real experience in one as a young boy tended to permeate his thoughts whenever he had to venture too far underground.

At least when he’d been on mine crew rotation, he’d been too busy to really think about it much. The same held true for his visits to the Tok’bel stronghold of Caer Ynys. And going deep within the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain had been nothing more than an unavoidable necessity if he had ever hoped to repay the debt he’d owed to Jack. He’d taken the assignment and the mission without a second’s hesitation. But here, with little or nothing to do for hours on end but wait…

There were soft footsteps behind him. “ _Filwriad,_ ” said Armagil, “why don’t you come inside, away from the wind? It’s warmer there, and Tathan’s brought his dice. The men are playing at twos and fives, so why not join them? Or at least come watch and make sure that sly fox Llew plays the game fairly?”

Cromwell turned his head, looking up to face the younger man as he spoke. He caught the look of understanding in his 2IC’s eye. Armagil was well aware of his distaste for caves, he knew, but of course that didn’t stop the younger man from trying to distract him by focusing his mind on the team. He often reminded the colonel of Captain Stuart that way. Stuart had been 2IC of the 121st and had rarely missed an opportunity to at least try to breach his irascible CO’s self-imposed isolation by drawing him into the team’s off-duty activities. The difference here was that Armagil met with success on most occasions whereas Stuart had not, though Cromwell knew that had far less to do with either man’s relative talents than with his own change in attitude over the past eighteen months or so.

“I’ll come back there in a few minutes, all right?” he replied. “I just need a bit of time to myself first.”

“Aye,” said Armagil simply, turning to leave. He glanced down at the lantern in his hand, then set it on the rocky floor just near the bend in the passageway. “I’ll leave this here for you, Neirin. I can find my way back without it. There’s another lamp set just around the next bend.” With that he vanished into the shadows before Cromwell could say another word.

The colonel gazed for a moment in the direction his lieutenant had gone, before turning his attention once more to the world outside. Truth be told, he was grateful for Armagil’s steady presence and quiet concern, not to mention the young _rhaglaw_ ’s efficiency. Cromwell had not hesitated to suggest his former clerk when Cadogan had requested candidates for promotion to the ranks of officers. Although he was only twenty-four and thus younger than many of the other Wolves, he was capable, dependable and bright, with what seemed to be an innate sense for situations. He had on more than one occasion displayed the capacity for brilliant leadership in both wargames and on actual missions. The _Am Rhyddid_ wasn’t exactly awash in officer ranks, nor did it need to be, but those who filled what positions were available were some of the best and the brightest men and women the Celtic tribes had to offer. Clearly, Cadogan and his compatriots had chosen well, and Cromwell was confident he’d made a good choice in Armagil.

He watched as a few fat flakes fell lazily from the pale gray overcast above to add themselves to the white blanket covering the landscape. The scene beyond the cave mouth was a study in gray and white, broken here and there by the odd bit of winter color: the deep evergreen of pines at the edge of the forest, the brown of frozen mud in patches along the rutted road that led to the mines. The blue-and-yellow plumage of a tit caught his eye as it streaked past on some errand, likely seeking a meal of seeds in the nearby trees.

Cromwell glanced at his watch, still surprisingly functional after all this time on a single battery. They’d been here a little over an hour, and there were several yet to go before he could expect the first report from Ceinwen. Tesni and the mining crew should have arrived at the mine complex by now and would most likely be getting set up in the worker’s dormitory, preparatory to commencing their labors. Realistically, he couldn’t expect to have any news until evening approached.

Faint sounds of conversation punctuated by occasional laughter echoed from deeper within the cavern as his Wolves entertained themselves with their dice game. Armagil was right, of course; it wouldn’t do to sit here brooding alone all day. The inner room would be warmer with the heat of so many bodies, and later, as the early dusk of winter neared, they could chance a fire. He’d post a sentry near the cave mouth throughout their stay, but taking that role himself the whole time would send the wrong message to his team. _So what if you’re in a cave, Cromwell? You’ve been in plenty of them before, and you’ll probably see the inside of others before all is said and done, especially as long as you’re leading this outfit. Anyway, third grade was a long damn time ago. Nick isn’t here, but you’ve got eight men back there who respect and look up to you, so get it together and deal. Besides, it isn’t being in this cave that worries you so much as not knowing what’s going on with Tesni at the mine. And you know damn well that no amount of sitting here stewing about it is going to keep her any safer._

With a sound somewhere between a sigh and a snort, he got to his feet and began to make his way toward the sound of his men’s voices, taking up the lantern as he passed.

 

 

***

 

“Three Goa’uld and five Jaffa?” Even as he asked the question, Cadogan’s mind raced.

The messenger nodded. “The Goa’uld were dressed as divine warriors of Bel. You know the costume. One wore a golden breastplate, and looked to be the leader of the other two. The Jaffa were in armor, with the horns of the ram on their helmets.”

Cadogan thought for a moment. There was a time when the news of approaching Goa’uld would have sent him and Sabar into hiding, though thankfully that hadn’t been necessary in over three decades. Not since the Tok’ra scientist Kharys had managed to perfect a symbiote-masking drug he called _sheta_ based on preliminary research he’d stolen out from under Ba’al’s nose over a century earlier, just before joining the Tok’bel. Rumor had it that Ba’al’s scientists still hadn’t managed to perfect their own version, possibly through having had to start over from scratch after Kharys destroyed the facility in which their initial work had been carried out, and the research team along with it. Working in a lab at Caer Ynys, Kharys had not only brought the research to fruition himself, but had then genetically modified a common herb, a species of mint cultivated on all of the Five Worlds, to produce the substance in the course of its own metabolism, thus ensuring a steady supply.

 _Sheta_ masked the particular biosignature that under normal circumstances allowed one mature symbiote  — the larvae carried in Jaffa pouches lacked this capability in any reliable form — to detect the presence of another within a host body. The Tok’bel had tested the altered plant’s effects by drinking a tea brewed from its leaves and discovered that indeed a symbiote whose host had ingested a daily dose of this infusion for several days no longer generated a detectable biosignature. Apparently the drug did take some time to build up in the system but once it did, the masking was total and without side-effects. Moreover, the drug took a long time to clear from the body; if one’s host had been using it consistently for several weeks, the effect persisted for at least two to three weeks afterward before beginning to wane.

 _I wonder whether this visit has anything to do with Coll, or if this is mere coincidence?_ mused Cadogan silently.

{That’s a good question,} Sabar replied, his mental tone thoughtful. {If the Jaffa at the mine managed to get any kind of information from Coll — not that he’d give it willingly, I know that — then we’re in serious trouble here. Then again, I’d almost expect a much larger party in that case, so this might be something completely unrelated.}

_So would I, to be honest. Still, we can’t rule it out._

{No, that’s true. Of course, we don’t even know for sure that this party even belongs to Bel. For all we know, it could be more of Moccas’ rogues.}

  _Good point. None of his raiding parties have included Goa’uld, though; only Jaffa._

{There’s a first time for everything, I suppose. At this point it’s still a possibility we have to consider.} Sabar’s tone was firm.

_Oh, agreed. We’re going to have to brazen this out, but I also want our people to be ready._

The scout was watching him, her green eyes fixed on his face. She was very young, in only her second year in the _Am Rhyddid_ , if memory served. “Have you any orders for me, _cadlywydd_?”

He wished Gerlad were here, but his aide had gone to Dinas Coedwyg to brief the rebels there in case things were about to get tricky, and wasn’t expected back for several hours. “For now, go and find Nenniaw, Dynawd and Aeronwy and tell them to get over here immediately. Then alert their teams; you know who reports to whom.”

She nodded, standing. “Does this have anything to do with Coll, do you think?”

He wanted to be able to tell her no and mean it, but there simply wasn’t enough information. “I’ve no idea, which is why I want everyone on the alert. If it does turn out there’s no connection, then I suppose Idris and I are about be called to task for something or other.”

“Aye.” She gave him a sympathetic look as she moved toward the door. “I’ll have the _filwriadau_ in your office soonest, sir.”

With her departure, he began to pace the room, pausing to glance at the mug resting on his desk. At least he and Sabar would be able to deal personally with whatever was about to happen. S _heta_ had been developed to allow Tok’bel operatives to move about freely among the human populations of the Five Worlds, rather than restricting undercover operations only to those posing as Goa’uld, and he and Sabar had availed themselves of it on a daily basis along with most other Tok’bel as a hedge against being discovered should they find themselves present on any of the Five Worlds at the time of a Goa’uld visit. It also allowed the Tok’bel to easily take an active role in combat operations where Goa’uld were apt to be encountered, because they could pass for purely human. The mainline Tok’ra had been happy enough when Sabar had shared the fruits of Khary’s labors with them, although according to Nasara they didn’t make nearly as much use of it as did the Tok’bel.

He forced himself to stop pacing and picked up the mug, carrying it with him out of the study and into his bedchamber, where he placed it on the dresser after draining half the remaining tea. Opening the large wooden wardrobe that stood against one wall, he studied its contents thoughtfully.

His routine of drinking _sheta_ tea daily had left only the problem of disguising himself sufficiently to prevent any Jaffa or Goa’uld from noticing the presence in Llanavon or elsewhere of a man whose name and features never changed over decades of time. Neither Jaffa nor Goa’uld paid much attention to individual humans on a normal basis, but the chiefs and priests of any given group were better-known. Not that any Pridani currently living believed the Goa’uld to be gods, but still it was the official function of Clan Branoc’s chief family to intercede with Bel and his minions on behalf of the people, and so they observed tradition in the interest of maintaining normal appearances and thus hiding their clan’s rebellious hearts.

Cadogan had been born the second child of then-chieftain Cynan ap Maugan some thirteen decades earlier, and had been known to Bel and his servants as a scion of the Pen-Branoc for almost fifty years prior to his blending with Sabar. Upon that blending, he had of necessity done as had Berwyn before him and limited his presence on Tir Awyr to those times when the System Lord and his lackeys were least likely to pay a visit, lest they detect the presence of a symbiote where there should be none. Bel generally kept to his capital world of Bohan and visited the others only on the twice-annual festival days when tribute was due, so it was relatively easy to avoid contact, especially as the tribute ceremony was carried out at the compass circle itself. Still, there were occasions when Bel’s servants or even Bel himself had been known to make an unanticipated visit to Llanavon or one of the other settlements nearest the _chappa’ai_ , so they’d had to be careful. A mature symbiote could detect the presence of another at distances of up to as far as the width of the village square and a bit beyond, meaning that if a Goa’uld showed up unexpectedly, he and Sabar had to rely on scouts or the village watch to provide advance warning, and take to the forest or else risk discovery.

{Remember, we don’t want to tip our hand and make it known that we’ve had advance warning,} Sabar cautioned him.

Cadogan continued sifting through the wardrobe, pausing to consider several garments before pushing them aside. _I know that. Still, I need something that will allow for action if necessary, without saying ‘here is a military man’. Something that’s also formal enough for receiving ‘divine’ emissaries while not looking as though I’ve taken all day to dress for the occasion. Best it be thought I just ducked off to change once I heard who was here._

Since the advent of _sheta_ he and Sabar had been in the presence of Bel and various of his subordinates at least a dozen times, with none the wiser. Of course, this had necessitated a bit of subterfuge. At first, it had been easy enough to simply grow a smart beard, carefully trimmed, and go about in his own face under an assumed name. Shortly after his blending with Sabar, they’d seen to it that Bel and his officers were informed that Cadogan ap Cynan trwy Hafgan was dead along with the known rebel Berwyn, and the entire rebel movement dead along with them, since they’d been its leaders. A clever ruse some ten years prior had the System Lord already convinced that the Tok’bel had been destroyed in the raid on their first stronghold, and Bel was provided with firm if erroneous evidence to support the claim of the rebellion’s end. The Tok’bel had gone underground more deeply than before, with even Sabar limiting himself to only rare excursions into any action where Goa’uld, rather than only Jaffa, were likely to be encountered.

The next five decades had seen little outward progress against Bel, although the Tok’bel did manage to position several additional operatives within the System Lord’s court and ministries. They also labored to collect and consolidate resources during that time, including stocks of naquadah skimmed from mining operations, and the ger’tak and the al’kesh now housed at Caer Ynys. When it came, Kharys’ pharmaceutical triumph changed the game considerably.

Given the gap of half a century between blending and the next time he’d deliberately allowed himself to be seen at close range on Tir Awyr by Bel or any of his minions, Cadogan had reasoned that none of them would have cause to suspect he was the same man they’d known, no matter how much he might resemble the old chief’s son. Thus he’d been ‘Brychan ap Bryn’ for a time in the eyes of Bel and his Jaffa, eventually disguising himself when in their presence by the means of a long grey wig, powder in his beard, and a pair of spectacles as ‘Brychan’ aged beyond Cadogan’s own apparent fifty or so years.

About twelve years ago he’d shaved his beard, put aside wig and spectacles, and reverted to using his own given name and patronymic when Goa’uld or Jaffa were about, passing himself off as a son of Cynan the Younger, his own nephew by way of his sister Aderyn. The younger Cynan had held the seat at Bennaeth Bod for twenty years before his death without surviving adult children caused the mantle of leadership to fall upon the capable shoulders of his brother Matho, Tesni’s grandfather. He  knew his outward appearance placed him around the proper age to have been born within the last few years of Cynan’s life, and any living offspring of the dead chief would have been accorded courtesy and given a position of responsibility within the clan in adulthood. Thus did Cadogan’s current pose as adviser and right-hand man to Idris mirror his true status to a large degree even as it formed the perfect cover.

For the first few years of this new masquerade he’d darkened the hair at his temples with a tinted pomade for these encounters, but more recently he’d stopped, reasoning that the silver he’d borne there since before his blending with Sabar was appropriate to the fifty-odd years now ascribed to the false persona he presented to the Goa’uld. Cadogan knew he looked little changed since the day he’d become Sabar’s host, but in a few more years it would become necessary to begin powdering his hair and perhaps to once more grow and powder his beard to disguise a face that did not age at the expected rate.

Settling on his choice of garb, he drew from the wardrobe a fine woolen tunic the color of wine with knotwork embroidery in deep blue and gold at cuffs, collar, and hem. Laying it carefully upon the bed, he glanced down at his grey woolen trousers, noting a smudge. Reaching into the wardrobe again he found a clean pair in dark blue and laid them next to the tunic. A glance at his reflection in the looking-glass reminded him that he’d not yet shaved. There was water in the ewer; it was cold, but time was of the essence and it wasn’t as if he’d never shaved using cold water before. Unlike some hosts, he found daily shaving to be a soothing ritual — cold or hot — and had never asked his symbiote to slow or stop the growth of his beard even when he wasn’t using it to disguise his features.

{That might have been convenient at the moment,} Sabar observed as Cadogan poured water into the basin and took up soap and shaving-brush.

 _We’ll manage. We’ve some time yet, and I still need to brief the others. There’s no reason I can’t do it while I shave and change._ He abandoned further comment as he heard the front door open, followed swiftly by footsteps on the stairs.

“Cadogan?” The voice belonged to Nenniaw, though there were two sets of feet audible in the hallway.

“In here! Come on in; I’m shaving.”

His nephews — Nenniaw and Dynawd were the great-grandsons of his sister Ninnocha — entered the room. “Gwen tells us there are Goa’uld coming. What do you need us to do?”

Below, the door opened and closed again, and another set of footsteps sounded on the stairs. “That’ll be Aeronwy,” he told them. “Give her a moment to get up here and I’ll brief all three of you as well as I can.”

 

***

 

Tesni slid her small rucksack of personal items beneath the cot she’d been assigned in the women’s section of the long, barracks-like dormitory. Other women bustled around her, stowing their own belongings and talking quietly among themselves. Some were from Llanavon, while others belonged to contingents from other nearby communities. Low conversation in Pridanic and Alban floated on the air.

Not everyone here was a new arrival, of course. The crew rotations were staggered, so that some were entering their second week of a two-week turn at the mines while others were just beginning a one- or two-week stint. The group with whom she’d arrived were scheduled for one week. Not that she’d necessarily be here for the entire week, depending on what she learned regarding Coll. She would have to be careful about asking too many questions, although a certain amount of curiosity would be natural on the part of someone from Coll’s own village, since it would only be normal for word of his imprisonment to have spread upon the return of his neighbors to Llanavon. The fact that the other Llanavoni had been permitted to return home without incident indicated that merely being associated with the lanky man wasn’t grounds for detention in and of itself, which gave her hope that the reasons for his own situation were completely unrelated to anything having to do with the _Am Rhyddid_.

A woman appeared in the doorway. She was solid-looking and appeared to be perhaps forty-five or fifty. “All right, ladies, it’s time to get to work, Finish stowing your gear and assemble in front of the building in five minutes for shift start.”

There was low murmuring as the shift manager departed. Tesni was familiar with the Eiluned, having encountered her on previous work details. She was one of those who only pretended loyalty to the Goa’uld as a means to hold a position of some privilege and advantage. Eiluned was secretly committed to the rebel cause, but her position here at the mine allowed her to access information that the general run of mine crew personnel could not, and she was also responsible in part for the steady, if small, trickle of naquadah ore that made its way from the mine to the _Am Rhyddid_ and eventually to the Tok’bel.

After checking to make sure that she had both gloves tucked into her belt, Tesni straightened and joined the flow of women moving toward the door. She fell into line beside a woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties, with gray-blonde hair plaited into a single thick braid that hung down her back. “You’re part of that new lot who’ve just come, aren’t you?” the woman asked. Though the words were in Pridanic, her voice carried the distinctive lilt of a native speaker of Alban.

Tesni nodded. “Yes, just now.”

“I’m Sorcha. Just finishing up week one of a two-week, and week two can’t be over soon enough to suit me.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Tesni. “I’m only here for one week, and I’ll be happy to get back home to my husband.”

Sorcha grinned. “Newlyweds, are ye?”

“Just over half a year.”

“And he didn’t join you on the rotation?” The older woman gave her a sidelong glance.

Without missing a beat, Tesni responded. “No, he had other duties.”

“Ah.” Her companion nodded. “I’m sure he’s as eager for your return as you are to get back to him then.”

“Without a doubt.”

Conversation ceased as they reached the door and the line dropped to single-file in order to pass through the narrow opening. The corridor outside was filled with miners of both genders. Tesni spotted Aeddon ab Amig and Cornan ap Derfel in the crowd. Cornan was scanning the line of female miners, and Tesni knew he was looking for his wife, Enfys, who had also come with this contingent. The young couple had wed at the same Midsummer feast as she and Neirin.

Up ahead, the miners were briefly silhouetted as they filed out into the overcast daylight that washed the broad court between dormitory and mine entrance. Tesni knew that the Goa’uld would have been perfectly happy to situate the entire complex, including the dormitories, belowground if not for the fact that their human slaves tended to do less well at their jobs if not provided at least some small measure of access to daylight and fresh air. So did their Jaffa, except that the warriors who also served as incubators for Goa’uld young were perhaps more stoic about the lack of such things when indeed they were lacking.

Emerging into the wan winter sunlight, Tesni blinked, looking around. A courtyard of sorts, roughly the length of Llanavon's central square but narrower, separated the dormitory building from the main mine entrance. A blocky building containing the mine's administrative space and barracks for the Jaffa stood on one side of the entrance while the sorting facility occupied a low building on the other. At the far end of the complex were additional sanitary facilities and the stable, both backed up against another arm of the rocky hillside into which the mine entrance itself was set.

Perhaps eighty miners, men and women, stood in the courtyard. She glanced about, noting familiar faces and many that were unfamiliar, ranging in age from about eighteen all the way to sixty or more. Most were looking about as well, appearing to savor their last view of sunlight for the day. Tesni knew it would be dark by the time they re-emerged from underground, and in the morning they would see daylight for no more than half an hour — if even that, given winter’s still-short days — before being herded below once more to mine the naquadah seam.

She breathed deeply of the crisp winter air, watching as Eiluned moved to the front of the haphazard line the miners had formed. Jaffa guards flanked both her and the assembled miners.

“All right,” Eiluned called out loudly. “Tools are on your left as you enter; pails will be on your right. Those of you who are new, let the others guide you. This isn’t complicated work, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Get inside and grab your kit — and you experienced hands, help the new folks. Let’s move.”

 

 

***

 

Cadogan stepped onto Bennaeth Bod’s front porch, fastening his cloak. In the forty minutes since the runner first arrived in his office, he’d shaved, changed, and simultaneously held a briefing with three of his four top officers. It wasn’t the first time he’d changed clothes in front of his officers — even Aeronwy — and it wouldn’t be the last. Hosting a symbiote lent itself to a certain lack of body modesty, although the Pridani weren’t a whole lot different. He’d then reviewed the situation with Idris, who as the currently acknowledged clan chief and village leader could expect to be called front and center by any visiting Goa’uld. As they were speculating on possible reasons for the visit, another messenger had arrived with the news that the party of Goa’uld and Jaffa were at the village gates.

“I don’t think I’ve ever hoped for a dressing-down before, but at this point it would be welcome, compared to the alternatives I’m worried about,” said Idris from beside him.

Cadogan gave his nephew a sidelong glance. “Agreed.”

Together they stepped off the porch, making for the village square. Around them, people moved through the street, converging on the square lest they be forcibly rounded up to attend their visitors, as had been known to occur on occasion when Bel or some other Goa’uld dignitary deemed the populace too slow in coming to render proper worship and respect. Apprehension was plain on their faces, mixed with resolve on those of the active members of the _Am Rhyddid_ units.

Turning the corner, Idris and Cadogan approached the square itself. A line of Jaffa, their ram’s-horned helmets closed to conceal their faces, stood ranged along the far end. Cadogan could see figures moving behind the Jaffa, but he couldn’t make out their identities either. The Goa’uld visitors, no doubt. A small, subdued crowd of villagers had begun to gather in the square, keeping a safe and respectful distance from the Jaffa. He noted several _Am Rhyddid_ personnel already placed strategically among their neighbors, and knew they carried zat’nik’tels concealed beneath their cloaks and coats. If things turned ugly, they had at least a chance of putting up a fight and possibly even winning, although to do either would irrevocably reveal the existence of the rebel movement. On the other hand, it might serve to buy them some time — however brief — in which to come up with further options and possibly to safeguard the truly innocent.

He risked a glance at Idris, who shrugged and then squared his shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”

Cadogan nodded. {No other choice,} Sabar commented silently.

The crowd parted to let them pass, and he and Idris moved forward to stand before their visitors. A broad Jaffa, clearly the captain of the guard detachment, drew himself up and addressed them. “Kneel before the Divine Emissary of your god!”

At moments like these, Cadogan reflected on his gratitude that so many years with Sabar had given him the acting skills to pull off the role of worshipful subject. Given the number of times he’d had to play it over the past three decades, he slipped into it far more easily than he’d ever suspected he might. Sabar himself had played a similar role on many hundreds of occasions over the more than two millennia of his own lifetime, on undercover missions that involved posing as a member, often minor, of this or that System Lord’s hierarchy. Still, the faint aura of distaste that colored the symbiote’s emotional reaction was unmistakable even now, and echoed his own.

He went to his knees; beside him, Idris did likewise. Before them, the line of Jaffa parted in the center, and two Goa’uld — middle-ranked officers, to judge by their armor — stepped forward, leaving a gap between them.

“Bow your heads before the Emissary of Bel!” said the one on the left.

There was nothing for it but to comply, at least not without risking all-out confrontation, and Cadogan wasn’t willing to do that right now that unless it became absolutely necessary.

A moment later, a familiar voice spoke from above his head. “Behold him who brings the Word of Bel. Look upon me and tremble.”

His own shock of recognition was just slightly less than Sabar’s as he looked up to find the owner of that voice regarding him with the dispassionate gaze of one who had the ear of the System Lord and carried out both his ‘blessings’ and his retributions. In his persona of General Kasol, Sholan wore the ceremonial gold-washed breastplate bestowed upon him by the unsuspecting Bel. The rest of his armor, or at least that portion not apparently constructed of hardened leather, had a copper patina.

Cadogan caught Sholan’s eye, saw the rapid double blink of acknowledgement. If the Tok’bel operative were surprised to find them here today, he hid it well. Then again, according to Sabar, Sholan had always been the consummate actor. It was a necessary part of the job, for all of them. _It appears we aren’t the only ones taking the stage at present._

Sabar’s mental tone was dry as he responded, {Indeed.}

 


	53. Friends In High Places

_He who does garrison duty is as much soldier as he that is in the fighting line_. — Seneca

 

Cromwell pushed himself up from the floor of the cavern, rubbing knees gone stiff from prolonged contact with the chilly stone despite his heavy woolen trews. He stood watching as his men continued their game. Llew shook the dice in their leathern cup, then poured them rattling into the center of the circle around which a half-dozen of his fellow Wolves crouched or knelt.

“Ah, of all the luck!” he spat, as several of his teammates cheered and Tathan reached out to scoop up the dice and a handful of copper coins. Tathan and Llew were brothers, but you’d never guess it to look at them, Cromwell mused. Llew was short, wiry and fair, while Tathan was tall, broad and dark-haired. And while Tathan was rarely without his dice, it was Llew who seemed to win most often at the games the Wolves played on downtime.

The cavern was small and tucked back into the hillside around a bend in the passageway leading from the cave mouth. Thus sheltered from the wind outside, it was marginally warmer than the outer tunnel and the presence of ten bodies in close proximity — Pyr had taken his place as guard at the entrance  — made it warmer still. Nonetheless, Cromwell could still see his breath condense in the lamplight as he exhaled. Come evening, provided they were still here, he’d be glad of a fire.

Dicing with his men was a far cry from the self-imposed separation he’d observed over his years with the 121st, but circumstances here were different. Not only were the lines between commander and subordinates far more permeable within the _Am Rhyddid_ than in the Air Force, but he felt a kinship with these men that he’d felt with only two or three out of those who’d made up the Special Tactics unit he’d commanded after the Gulf. Even with Stuart, or Douglas, or with Taylor — Stuart’s predecessor as the 121 st’s 2IC — the colonel had kept himself apart, despite sensing that any of the three would gladly have offered him friendship had he but availed himself of the opportunity. Stuart’s efficient and ready help, tinged by a generally-unspoken but detectable curiosity about his taciturn CO, and the quiet concern exhibited by Douglas had made them the closest thing Cromwell felt he had to actual friends during the years after Jack’s capture, but his own deep-seated guilt over what had happened in Iraq had prevented his forging any bonds beyond those essential to functioning in the field or under fire. He’d had the trust and respect of his entire team, though God knew why, and he’d trusted them implicitly to watch his six in a firefight, but off-duty camaraderie was a privilege he’d left to those more deserving of it than a man who’d abandoned his best friend to the enemy.

He knew himself to be different now, too. The past year and a half had given him time to assimilate the effects of his all-too-brief reunion with Jack and the peace they’d made. And despite his worry over the subsequent fate of those he’d left behind on Earth, life among the Pridani had placed its own indelible stamp on his psyche, as had marriage to Tesni. He might not be greatly changed, but it was enough to bring him fully engaged with those around him to an extent he hadn’t been since early in 1991. The thought still left him bemused, that he’d been exiled light-years across space only to come back to himself.

Of course, one thing hadn’t altered, and that was his dislike of situations beyond his control. His capacity for worrying about the people he cared about or for whom he was responsible remained as strong as ever, and right now he was worried about both Coll and Tesni. Coll, because the wisecracking rebel soldier was both under his command and someone he regarded as a friend. And Tesni… Well, now he thought he was beginning to understand what it must have been like for Lisa during the years of their marriage, knowing he was somewhere in harm’s way but helpless to do anything about it except worry. Unlike Lisa, of course, he wasn’t ignorant of the details. If anything, he knew all too well what conditions at the mine were like and how cruel the Jaffa could be if provoked. What he didn’t know was what kind of trouble Tesni might have been walking into… or what he would do if something happened to her.

Flexing his knees as they warmed under the friction of his hands against the woolen breeches, he straightened and made his way to the narrow ledge that served as a sort of seat at one side of the cavern. Armagil sat there, talking quietly with Brioc as their comrades focused on the game in progress. Both men looked up at his approach. “Sir?” said Armagil.

“Don’t mind me,” he replied, easing himself down to join them and tucking his cloak about his legs. “I’ve just had enough of gaming for a bit. Not to mention that Llew has managed to win his share and then some from me.” _I ought to have Ris or someone make up a deck of cards so I can teach these guys to play poker,_ he thought. _Then I might have a chance to win it back._

He caught his 2IC’s low chuckle as the young man shifted to make a bit more room. “I told you someone should be watching him.”

Cromwell grinned in spite of his concerns at the moment. “He’s playing fair as far as I can tell, but all I’ve been watching is my pouch grow lighter.” The rebels and their officers earned a soldier’s pay and although most of it came in the form of the housing and sustenance shared by all in the community, some was paid in coin as well. As a team leader, the colonel’s pay was correspondingly higher, but none of them were wealthy men. Not that monetary wealth as a concept had much meaning in the Pridani’s current situation. A slave was still a slave regardless of the contents of his purse, and none among them would ever let another go hungry or unsheltered, be they friend or stranger. Cromwell had ample evidence of that himself from first-hand experience.

A glance at his watch confirmed that several hours had passed since they’d arrived at their temporary shelter. If his experience of his own mining rotations held true, the first day’s shift was generally abbreviated for new arrivals, given that they’d already spent a portion of their day on the road. That meant that Tesni ought to report to Ceinwen before much longer, and Ceinwen in turn would contact him via communicator if possible. This close to the mines, the effects of the nearby concentration of raw naquadah ore could sometimes interfere with communication devices despite the shielding built into them; some property of unrefined naquadah was responsible for this behavior that refined naquadah was less likely to produce. Or at least that was how Cadogan had once explained it to him. Should Ceinwen experience difficulty getting through, she would hike the mile from the edge of the mining camp to the caves in which Cromwell’s team hid. The _cadlywydd_ had been fairly certain that their communicator would receive a signal if they didn’t take it completely within the cavern system, however.

Pyr had charge of it at the moment, being stationed on guard at the cave mouth; whoever took the next shift would also take over babysitting the device. For now, though, Cromwell opted to join him and wait for word from Ceinwen.

 

***

 

Cadogan looked up at the Tok’bel operative standing over him. He’d last seen Sholan across the conference table at Caer Ynys several months earlier, just after Jaffa loyal to Bel’s son Moccas had carried out two executions on Emhain and made off with naquadah ore that had been destined for the planet’s semiannual tribute to Bel. Since that time, of course, he would have simultaneously carried out the duties assigned to him in his role as ‘General Kasol’ in Bel’s military hierarchy and continued to advance the Tok’bel’s effort at hindering Bel’s control of the Five Worlds, including operating a disinformation campaign aimed at preventing Bel’s awareness of the continued existence of any rebel group within his domain, be they human or Tok’ra.

Now ‘Kasol’ had been dispatched to Tir Awyr, for who knew what purpose. Coming hard on the heels of Coll’s having been taken into custody, Cadogan couldn’t help but wonder whether the two events shared some connection. At least with Kasol in charge of the delegation, there might yet be some hope of averting all-out disaster, as Sholan would of course do everything in his power — which was admittedly limited by circumstance — to soften whatever blow he might have been ordered to deal the citizens of Llanavon, at least by whatever measure he could without revealing his own identity and threatening the safety of the entire rebel movement. Cadogan would have to play his own role accordingly, however.

He heard Idris, who knelt beside him, draw breath to speak and hurried to take the reins of conversation. While Idris was aware that the Tok’bel had operatives deep within Bel’s civil and military organizations, he had no way to recognize Sholan as such a one, having never interacted with him or his host directly. As chance would have it, this was the first time that ‘Kasol’ had been sent to visit Llanavon in the seven years since Idris had become clan chieftain.

“My Lord General, is it?” Cadogan feigned unfamiliarity with their visitor’s exact identity — either one. “Praise be to Bel, and all welcome to you as His Emissary. How may we serve you and our Lord in whose Name you have come to us?” He felt Idris tense for just a moment where their shoulders touched. Then his nephew relaxed, obviously realizing that Cadogan knew what he was doing.

{“I am Kasol, General of our Lord’s Army of Might and bringer of both His blessings and His wrath,”} said Sholan, his expression still haughty. Bel posed as a warrior deity, so his emissaries were frequently of a military nature themselves. Centuries ago, before the Wars of the Gods, it had been considered a great honor among humans to be chosen to serve as one of Bel’s soldiers, or as the handpicked vessel of his martial offspring. Needless to say, that belief had died as the internecine fight between Bel and the most powerful of those offspring ended his initial reign and showed him and his progeny to be no gods at all. But Bel ruled his reconstituted realm in the same fashion as of old, and his subjects pretended to go along so as to protect their own interests, including the rebellion itself.

Sholan continued, {“Our Lord Bel the Shining, the Fair Slayer of His enemies and Rewarder of His loyal peoples, has found the tribute of His peoples lacking. Lord Bel reminds you of His mercy, yet also that He demands full tribute of the best you can provide. He has given you a home with all that you need, and shown mercy when your forefathers strayed from His paths and His commandments. Bel took you back unto His bosom and His grace, and made you once more His own. He protects you jealously from all enemies and asks only that you provide Him with that which is necessary to your own protection. How little is the sweat of your brow and the work of your hands to repay His efforts… yet some among you tarry and do not give full measure. I am charged to remind you that this is unacceptable.”}

Cadogan risked a glance at Idris, who shrugged minutely. As the recognized chieftain of Clan Branoc, it was rightly Idris’ place to answer for his people.

“My Lord General Kasol, the people of Llanavon and the surrounding district have worked hard to honor our Lord Bel and to bring full measure of that which is demanded of us in tribute. We continue to do so, and have at this very moment a number of our own populace in service at the mines and in other productive endeavors, for the enrichment of our Lord’s storehouses and his coffers,” said Idris. “What may we offer as proof of our loyalty and our service?”

The general’s gaze bored into them both. {“The continuation of that service. I go next to speak to your brethren in Dinas Coedwyg and Bren Argoed, and on the morrow to those who now labor in the mines. I will tell you the same thing I will tell them: Tribute is due at the summer solstice, less than five greatmoons from now, and full measure will be expected and required. The people of Tir Awyr have not thus far returned less than that, but the same cannot be said for all your brethren.”}

 _Ah. He’s talking about Emhain,_ Cadogan commented silently to Sabar. The theft of naquadah from the Emhaini stores by Jaffa employed by Moccas would have resulted in a smaller tribute amount. By now Bel was surely aware of his offspring’s predations, but that wouldn’t prevent his prodding his slaves to make up the shortfall. Sholan’s message was clear: Bel was paying close attention to the yield of his mining operations.

{Undoubtedly,} came the symbiote’s reply. {He’s also just made a public statement that the Tir Awyri are thus far still in Bel’s good graces, so I’d say the timing of this visit is only coincidental to what’s happened with Coll. We may be in a position to make a request, if we handle things just right.}

_What do you propose?_

{You might beg a boon, explaining that one of the locals did not return from the mines and that you fear he’s made some minor infraction that’s caused him to run afoul of the Jaffa there. Ask for mercy on his behalf, as is fitting for such a ‘gracious and merciful lord’ as Bel.}

_And what if Coll’s infraction turns out not to have been minor?_

{I’m reasonably certain that news would already have been communicated to Bel, in which case this visit would be far less benign than it appears to be.}

Sabar had a point. Still, the thought of asking for something publicly made Cadogan nervous. It wasn’t that Sholan himself would willingly refuse the request, of course. But simply asking in the first place could put the Tok’bel operative in a precarious position. To appear too lenient would be to risk suspicion, and there were not only Jaffa present but also two other Goa’uld who might well report back to Bel. On the other hand, even Bel himself had been known to grant a boon to his subjects on occasion, in keeping with the beneficent image he sometimes liked to project. This image alternated with that of “wrathful deity” often enough that it was well-nigh impossible to know which Bel one might find oneself dealing with on any given day. Cadogan agreed with Sabar’s theory that the _neb ankh*_ — the device used by Goa’uld to prolong both life and youth — led to the well-known mental instability exhibited by those of the highest ranks, as they tended to be the heaviest users of the device. This was the primary reason why Tok’ra eschewed its use.

Still… _You’re sure about this?_ If nothing else, Sabar knew more about the Goa’uld mindset than he did.

{Yes. If you like, I will make the request myself, using your voice.}

Cadogan knew the offer was intended to assuage any doubts he might have about his own handling of the situation or taking responsibility for Coll’s fate, but it was his duty — and his nephew’s — to look after their own. _No need; I’ll do it._

Beside him, Idris had bowed his head at Sholan’s words. “Understood, Lord General. We will give full measure, as always.”

Sholan nodded, his face impassive. {“Then the blessings of our Lord will be yours.”}

Cadogan cleared his throat. “Lord General?”

Sholan’s eyes flicked to meet his. The general’s two Goa’uld lieutenants also glanced at him, before turning their attention back to the assembled crowd. {“Speak.”}

“I would beg a boon, if I may… a blessing from our most gracious Lord’s own Emissary.”

The general’s eyebrows rose a fraction. {“You may ask.”}

Cadogan drew a deep breath, ordering his thoughts. “As my cousin _bennaeth_ Idris has mentioned, we have several of our local populace on duty at the mines right now. Several more returned only yesterday from their own labors there. However, one who had been part of the work detail was not among them, and I would like news of his fate. Reports indicate that he may have been detained, in which case I surmise that this was due to some minor infraction. This man has a wife and a family, and I would ask of you that his release be secured and that he be returned to us unharmed. As the chief’s advisor, I will take full personal responsibility for the man’s conduct. His name is Coll.”

He heard a faint gasp from those villagers assembled most closely behind him. Otherwise, silence reigned for a moment. Sholan blinked, his expression still carefully neutral.

Cadogan waited.

Finally, ‘General Kasol’ looked out over the assembled crowd and spoke. {“I can make no promise, but if he has not been harmed and his infraction was indeed minor, I will see this man returned to you. Bel is merciful, and so am I inclined to be today. Remember this when you go to your labors, that you labor to please a merciful Lord, and let this spur your efforts.”}

Without missing a beat, Idris picked up the thread and answered. “On behalf of my clan and my village, I thank you and vow that we will remember the mercy you have shown us today.”

Sholan looked down once more, meeting first Idris’ gaze and then Cadogan’s before giving another rapid blink that signaled his receipt of the message contained in their exchange.

Cadogan breathed an inward sigh of relief. _So it seems you were right. I suspect even you had a moment there, though._

{These things are always tricky. But I believe we’ve pulled it off.} Sabar’s mental tone carried its own relieved note. {Sholan’s made it clear that they’ll be going next to Dinas Coedwyg and Bren Argoed, where they’re likely to spend the night before going to the mine. Even Goa’uld and Jaffa prefer to travel overland by daylight if they have the choice, so with any luck, we’ll see Coll back here by tomorrow evening. We’ll have to warn Neirin about Sholan, though. If he sees a party of Goa’uld and Jaffa headed for the mine, he’ll think the worst.}

 

***

 

The mine gallery was softly lit by glowpanels mounted overhead, technology deployed by their Goa’uld overlords to increase yields in the mines by giving the miners adequate light in which to work. Her ancient ancestors would have regarded this as ‘the magic of the gods’, Tesni knew, but modern Pridani recognized technology for what it was, even when it represented advances far beyond what was available to them in their own daily lives.

The Wars of the Gods had thoroughly put paid to the divine attribution of Goa’uld devices and abilities before it was ended, and during the Interregnum that followed, her people and their cousins on all the Five Worlds had come to regard technology as something their erstwhile masters simply possessed in a more advanced form. Little headway had been made in those five hundred years toward understanding the principles underlying the devices left abandoned by the Goa’uld and their Jaffa. The science of Bel’s former slaves, inquisitive as they were, had been nowhere near the level required for that, and Bel’s unfortunate return three centuries ago had put a lid on further attempts. Since the advent of the Tok’bel, however, the scientific knowledge available to the Pridani — and eventually the peoples of Tir Awyr’s sister worlds — had increased dramatically. Not that most everyday folk understood all of it, but those who worked closely with them and their hosts were privy to at least a basic understanding of the principles on which Goa’uld and Tok’ra technology were based, and hedge schools had sprung up that taught quite a lot of factual knowledge about the universe. Tesni herself had learned much of what she knew from her uncle Cadogan.

She paused in digging at the seam of naquadah ore to wipe her face with her sleeve and glanced briefly around at her workmates. Six men and four women comprised her work gang, in which she was the only member from Llanavon. Sorcha was in her gang, though the two of them had found precious little time for chatting since they’d entered the mine that morning.

Somewhere, a gong clanged; the signal to end the work shift. Aboveground, dusk would be gathering as the dayshift workers traded places with the first of two nightshifts. Shouldering her pick and her pail — naquadah ore was brittle and when freed from the parent seam it tended to fracture into small chunks which were then collected in pails — she turned toward the ladder leading down from the section of scaffold where she’d been working.

Sorcha caught up with her as she emptied her nearly-full pail into a cart, then stacked it with several others nearby. They joined the slow-moving line of weary miners filing toward the exit from this particular gallery to the main shaft leading upward. An open-cage elevator — more Goa’uld technology, as its mechanism worked by invisible power rather than by the effort of humans or animals as would have been the case of any such conveyance in operation at a human-controlled mine — would carry them to the surface level where they would emerge within a shallow cave.

As they shuffled forward in line, Sorcha sighed wearily. “Even though this was a shorter shift underground than most, I’m exhausted.” She spoke softly; the miners tended to keep conversation low so as to prevent Jaffa from overhearing. The nearest Jaffa at present was stationed at the head of the line, some thirty feet away, but everyone knew it never hurt to be vigilant. “They’ve had us working at quite a pace some of the shifts, now that a couple of new galleries have been opened up along the seam. Last week two gangs were down here for more than twelve hours with only a single meal break, and I was on one of them. One of my workmates was so worn out and weak with little food that he stumbled and sprained his ankle just as we were about to come off-shift.”

Tesni frowned. “Did he get any treatment?”

Her teammate snorted. “He probably wouldn’t if the Jaffa had their way, but a guy from one of the other shifts — they had us working staggered — saw him fall and came to help. The guard tried to make him stop, but he kept on anyway. Got him to the break area and someone else came to see to his injury. Of course, the Jaffa hauled him away for doing it.”

“The one who first helped him, you mean?”

Sorcha nodded. “Yes. Two Jaffa dragged him away. I heard later they put him in a detention cell.”

Tesni glanced around, but no one was paying them any attention. “Listen, you’re saying you saw it happen? What did this man look like?”

 “Tall, kind of gangly… oh, and red-haired.” Sorcha cocked her head.  “Why?”

“I know him; he’s from my village. We wondered why he hadn’t come back with the others. You don’t happen to have heard anything about him since then, have you?”

Sorcha shook her head. “No, not a word. I’d guess they probably still have him behind bars. If the Jaffa here decide they don’t like you, they’ll just stick you in a cell and keep you there until they decide to do something else with you. Or until they get tired of you and let you go.”

Tesni grimaced. “I’ve heard the stories.”

They were nearing the elevator and its Jaffa guards, so the conversation ceased as they boarded the conveyance with several of their fellow workers. When the cage was full, one of the mine’s overseers — this one human rather than Jaffa — closed the gate and pressed a lever. The metal floor beneath their feet vibrated as the cage rose slowly up the shaft.

Lacking anything better to do, Tesni watched the man’s face in profile as they ascended toward the surface. She’d seen him before, on other occasions when she’d done a work rotation here. He appeared to be perhaps forty years old, with dark hair that curled about his ears, half-hiding the small spiral tattoo that coiled its way from just behind his earlobe to the corner of his jawline in faded blue ink. An Alban, then, of the clan Talorc, who marked their firstborn with a spiral at the age of twelve and dedicated them to Bel’s service. Most people on Tir Awyr — and, she knew from Cadogan, throughout Bel’s domain except for those on Bohan — no longer believed Bel to be a god or worshiped him in any but the most ceremonial sense. What deference they did give was largely a matter of appearance and done for the simple expedient of survival in a world where the System Lord still held the reins of power. The vast majority of the population was either neutral, preferring to keep their heads down and just get on with life, or opposed at least philosophically to the Goa’uld lord’s reign. The rebels of the _Am Rhyddid_ and its sister movements came from this latter run of folk, naturally.

But there were still some individuals who did revere Bel as a god, and a few clans such as Talorc which were wholly dedicated to serving him. The balance of power between the other clans left little room for action against Talorc, which might have invited retribution from on high, but relations with the loyalists were chilly and they were left largely to themselves in their line of craggy hills to the northwest where they had lived in isolation even during the Interregnum. This seemed to suit everyone well enough, especially given the existence of the rebel movement was interleaved with local militia training among the lowland folk to hide its activities but little else could be done to disguise it. Clan Talorc was likely aware of the pervasiveness of rebellious sentiment among many of their neighbors but remained insular enough to be unacquainted with the rebel network itself.

The cage reached the top of the shaft and stopped. The man let go his lever and unlatched the gate, swinging it open so the miners could disembark. The air in the shallow tunnel was cold but its freshness was welcome after several hours spent breathing the stale-smelling air of the mine. Outside air did circulate there via a system of shafts, but unless you were right next to one, it smelled of sweat and metal and rock dust, along with the oil used to lubricate the wheels of the carts and lifts used to transport the fractured ore to the surface for processing.

Tesni made her way toward the arched egress, noting the low angle of the light outside. Sunset would be less than an hour away, and she still needed to rendezvous with Ceinwen to make her report.

 

***

 

Cadogan glanced up at the overcast sky as he left the community building with Idris in tow. The bright patch that indicated the sun’s position had shifted far toward the west, and he frowned as he noticed the lengthening shadows cast by the houses they passed on their way back to Bennaeth Bod. ‘General Kasol’ and his party had spent nearly two hours in Llanavon, all told, and had left with a token ‘tribute’ of items intended as a show of the people’s continued ‘worship’ of Bel. The irony of this bit of theatrical window-dressing was not lost on Cadogan, nor on Sabar. Sacrifices were being made in the quest for freedom, even as other ‘sacrifices’ were demanded to hide the fact of that quest.

Immediately after their visitors’ departure, a rather large contingent of the populace had insisted on meeting with himself and Idris in the village hall to discuss the meaning of the visit. Without revealing Sholan’s identity, Cadogan had allowed Sabar to take over for a time and reassure their assembled neighbors that they were in no immediate danger as a result of this unexpected visit. At the conclusion of that meeting, Cadogan had reclaimed control and called a meeting of his local officers, sharing with them and with Idris the fact that a Tok’bel operative had been at the head of the Goa’uld delegation and would do what he could to see their comrade Coll returned to them. Losing half the afternoon to play-acting and half the rest of it to meetings was far from ideal, but he reminded himself that it could’ve been worse. He ignored his growling stomach as they trudged through the slushy square, its snow churned by dozens of passing feet, toward home. Next on the list of things to do was contacting Neirin, after which if he were lucky he might get a chance at a meal before something else decided to demand his attention.

“You know, there are times when it really bothers me to be so little help,” said Idris from beside him.

Cadogan looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean by that?”

His nephew shrugged. “It’s one thing when I’m dealing with the general folk, but then I sit in on one of your meetings with your officers, and I feel ineffective by comparison. Like I want to take some sort of action, but how? You and Sabar, and the other active _Am Rhyddid_ — you all have things you can do to fight Bel and his people directly, but I’m stuck here just trying to manage odds and ends almost the same way I would be if there were no rebellion.”

The _cadlywydd_ shook his head. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the same from Dwynwen and Matho, Idris’ mother and grandfather, so he really shouldn’t be shocked. Even the younger Cynan had said something similar once or twice. Of course, in those days the rebels generally hadn’t seen as much action as at present. Still, even military exercises or the occasional skirmish with a neighboring clan might seem more like actually ‘doing something’ compared to the administrative tasks that were his nephew’s normal duties. History was full of the exploits of warrior-chiefs: more than five centuries of them during the Interregnum and the Wars of the Gods beforehand. Chieftains had become warlords, some fighting on the side of Bel’s offspring for control over this or that portion of land and resources, while others — including Branoc’s line — battled against them. When the Goa’uld left, they’d turned to fighting it out amongst themselves until a basic division of territory had settled into place, as the most powerful consolidated their holdings and became not just chiefs but king and queens. The wisest among them had turned to trade and development rather than to warfare, but there had always remained a military element to keep the peace, with the various clan leaders pledged to their respective rulers.

After Bel returned and reconquered his domain, these monarchies dissolved under the weight of Goa’uld domination, leaving the clans as the major sociopolitical units. Clans still occasionally warred between themselves with sword, arrow and spear, or sometimes with Goa’uld weapons either left over from the ancient wars or provided to loyalist militias by Bel’s restored regime. There was even the occasional isolated confrontation between Bel’s subjects and his Jaffa enforcers. Sometimes these brought retribution and sometimes not, as Bel had long appreciated a bit of fight in his worshipers, in keeping with his chosen role as a warrior deity. That many of his subjects no longer viewed him as a deity was an open secret, and tolerated as long as they remained his servants and gave tribute as required.

Cadogan had grown up reading much the same history as Idris, and remembered being stirred by it. He and his twin sister Aderyn had both gravitated toward the warrior’s path, a perfectly reasonable approach to leadership in their day, though Aderyn had proven much more adept at the concomitant demands of administration than he had. _How that has changed over the century since,_ he reflected. He was sure his sister would be amused. Either way, Clan Branoc had lived in peace with its neighbors for decades now, and Idris had known from an early age that it would fall to him to administer the material possessions and social responsibilities of the clan  and the village of Llanavon while others took the field in service to the rebellion. He wasn’t the first to chafe under the restriction, Cadogan knew, and might well not be the last. Still…

“Idris, your role is as important as anyone else’s, even mine. If you weren’t here to mind things at home, I wouldn’t be able to do my own duty. Aderyn understood this well after our father died.” At the time of Cynan the Elder’s passing, Cadogan was in the field and Aderyn, a warrior herself, was seven months gone with child. She had taken the position of administrative chief, naming her twin as war chief. Technically, he’d remained co-chieftain ever since that day nearly a century ago. “Besides, it isn’t as if I don’t help you — ”

“ — tend the hearth when you’re around?” Idris gave him a lopsided smile. “I know you do, Uncle, and it’s much appreciated, too. Still, it can be frustrating to be in my position, and I worry about Ris in all this. He wants to follow in your footsteps, not mine, and while I know there’s nothing wrong with my particular duty, I know he’ll chafe even more than I do. He’s more wedded to action than I ever have been. Neirin has taken him well in hand and given him good direction, but you know as well as I do that Ris practically worships him and will emulate him too, given half a chance.”

{Berwyn and yourself, all over again,} Sabar interjected silently.

_I know._

They stepped across the muddy rut left by a cartwheel. “Time to replace some of these cobbles, come spring weather,” Idris observed.

Cadogan touched his shoulder. “Did you just hear yourself? This is why you’re so valuable in your present role. You see what needs to be done here, even the small details, that keeps everyone else looked after and their surroundings, too.”

“Anyone could notice something like that.” Idris shook his head.

 “Certainly anyone _could_. But you _do_ , and then you arrange to deal with it. Half the time you don’t even need to make a note of it to remember. That’s a gift.”

Idris snorted. “Like your memory isn’t just as good.”

“Ah, but I have help in that regard.” Tok’bel symbiotes had amazing powers of memory, something that Cadogan found extraordinarily useful.

This time his nephew chuckled. “All right, that’s a fair point.”

Arriving at the manor house, they slipped inside and shrugged out of their cloaks, accepting cups of mulled ale from Tegwyn, who had greeted them at the door. “Mother says dinner will be early, as neither of you has eaten since breakfast.”

“Most excellent news,” observed Cadogan appreciatively. “I’ll be in my study until then, _annwyl_.”

“Mind if I join you?” asked Idris.

“Come on, then,” Cadogan invited, turning toward the stair. “I’m going to contact Neirin via communicator and tell him to expect Sholan and his company, so he doesn’t get his feathers ruffled over seeing them pass by on the road.”

“I’ll bring you up a loaf and some cheese,” Tegwyn called after them as they began to climb the steps to the second floor.

In his study, Cadogan poked the banked fire to life and added another log before moving to the desk, where he opened a drawer, producing his communicator. The device fit easily in the palm of his hand, yet it packed enough power to send a signal to space if necessary. Two identical devices were in the field right now, one with Ceinwen near the mine complex and the other with Neirin at the Wolves’ hideout. Garlen, the Tok’bel’s resident technical genius, had set the Tok’bel’s communicators to a frequency band far outside those normally used or monitored by the Goa’uld and securely encrypted them to guard against both detection and the interception of messages by anyone outside the rebellion.

Activating the device, he joined Idris before the fire, settling into the unoccupied of the two horsehair-upholstered chairs. “Uncle calling Wolf Leader. Are you receiving?” When nothing happened for a moment, he repeated the hail. “Wolf Leader, this is Uncle. Please respond.”

The communicator remained stubbornly silent. Sighing, he tried a different tack. “Vixen, can _you_ hear me? This is Uncle.”

A moment later Ceinwen’s voice issued from the device. “Yes, Uncle, I hear you clearly. I take it Wolf Leader isn’t responding?”

Cadogan shook his head as Idris looked concerned. “No, and that probably means I was wrong about how badly the naquadah ore traces in that cave system might interfere with the signal reception. At least, I hope that’s all it is. Meanwhile, we’ve had a new development…” He went on to explain about the visit from ‘General Kasol’ and the general’s real identity. “He’s agreed to look into the matter and do what he can to free Coll and see that he is returned to us alive and unharmed.”

“Well, that’s certainly welcome news,” came the reply. “If Wolf Leader isn’t receiving your messages, then it’s a safe bet he won’t receive mine. I’ll go to him myself, as soon as She-Wolf has reported to me. Which should be anytime now, I expect.”

Cadogan nodded, shooting Idris a confident look. “Excellent. Please let me know what she reports as well.”

“Will do, Uncle. I’ll be in touch soon.”

Cadogan pocketed the communicator. “I’m annoyed to be proven wrong about those caves, but at least Ceinwen will get a message through.” A knock sounded and he glanced at the doorway to see Tegwyn bearing a small platter that held a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and the cheese knife. She carried it to the small table situated between their chairs. “Thank you, _annwyl_.”

Tegwyn nodded. “You’re welcome.” She hesitated for just a second before asking, “Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

“I hope so,” the _cadlywydd_ said honestly.

His young niece appeared to digest this response for a moment. “That’s a fair answer.” She turned toward the door, then looked back over her shoulder. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

 

***

 

The wind rattled branches and brush clustered around the rocky slope near the edge of the mining complex where Ceinwen had come to make her rendezvous with Tesni. “So it was just simple disobedience?” She pulled her cloak more tightly about herself as a chill gust caught its hem. “That’s good news.”

Tesni brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Let’s hope so.”

“I have news as well,” Ceinwen began, then went on to explain what she had learned from the _cadlywydd_. “They’re expected to arrive sometime in the morning. I’m going to go and deliver both messages to Neirin in person tonight.”

“Tell him I send my love.”

 

***

 

Two hours had passed since Cromwell had come to sit with Pyr by the mouth of the cave, and at least one since he’d sent the younger man back to the company of his fellows in the sheltered chamber within. No sense both of them enduring the cold and the stiffening breeze the colonel was certain heralded more snowfall before midnight. He gazed out at the deepening dusk as he fingered the communicator in his pocket. No message had yet come from Ceinwen, and he was beginning to worry. Surely she’d had some contact with Tesni by now?

The entry tunnel was in shadow, a yawning mouth leading to a black throat beyond. Cromwell checked the shielded lantern by his side, reassuring himself that the candle it contained was still lit and large enough to get him through the night if need be. With its tin panel closed, the lantern cast no light save that tiny bit reflected from the hooded opening that fed air to the flame. Sliding the panel open allowed for its light to be directed and controlled, much as a flashlight’s would be. His grandfather had owned a pair of similar lanterns that he recalled using on youthful camping expeditions and once or twice during power outages caused by the summer thunderstorms that had come rolling through the valley.

The crunch of boots on snow brought him back from this reverie. “Neirin?” said a feminine voice.

“I’m here, Ceinwen.” He pushed himself to his feet as she appeared, a darker shadow against the dim twilight reflected from the snow. “Are you having problems with the communicator? Have you spoken with Tesni? What’s happening at the mine?” Even as he asked the questions, staccato, Cromwell realized how keyed-up he actually sounded.

He didn’t care.

Ceinwen joined him in the cave, her own lantern casting just a sliver of light from behind its barely-opened shielding. “My communicator is working fine, but apparently yours can’t pick up a signal from inside the cave. The _cadlywydd_ tried and so did I, and neither of us could raise you. He says most likely there’s too much naquadah in the surrounding rock, and he’s a bit chagrined to have been wrong about his estimate.”

 _Damn._ “I’ll have to position one of my men outside with it, then.” Cromwell tried to think of a spot on the hillside that provided enough shelter from the snow and wind. In this cold and without a fire or other heat source, comm shifts would need to be brief, perhaps only a couple of hours at a time during the day and even less at night.

Ceinwen shook her head. “You could, but it’s only a short hike from the mine to here, so I can carry messages on foot with little trouble. And I have news.”

“I’m listening.”

“First of all, I’ve spoken with Tesni. She’s fine, and sends her love. She’s learned that apparently Coll was arrested for simple disobedience. It seems another miner tripped and twisted his ankle at the end of an extra-long shift, and Coll stopped to help the man. The Jaffa thought at least one of them was slacking, and told Coll to leave the other man alone… but you know Coll. He helped the man anyway, and got tossed into a cell for his trouble. Tesni spoke with a woman who saw it all happen, and while there’s been no other news of him since then, at least it looks like it was typical Jaffa arrogance rather than anything more dire.”

Relief flooded through the colonel, both at the news of his wife’s safety and that Coll was apparently not under suspicion of dissent or disloyalty. The rebel movement’s secret was still safe. “Thank you.”

He saw Ceinwen shiver as a wind gust found its way into the mouth of the cave. “Wait, let’s head back where it’s more sheltered and warmer,” he said, touching her shoulder and drawing her deeper into the passageway, sliding his lantern open as he did so. “My men will be able to build a fire now that the sun’s gone down and the smoke will be hidden. We hunted along the way here, so we’ll have meat in a while. Stay and eat with us before you return to your post.” Together they began to make their way toward the inner chamber. “So what’s the other news?”

“Llanavon was visited by a party of Goa’uld and Jaffa today, and — ”

 _Fuck!_ “That can’t be good. What happened?” If Goa’uld were going to start showing up, they were in serious trouble, no matter what Coll’s situation was.

Ceinwen laid a hand on his arm. “Wait; there’s more to the story, Neirin. They were under the command of one General Kasol, who is actually a Tok’bel operative under deep cover in Bel’s military. From the sound of things, Bel is simply trying to intimidate people into additional effort at resource production, and sent a warning to be sure to give full measure at the next tribute. Cadogan thinks it has something to do with Emhain — he said you’d know what that meant.”

Cromwell nodded. “I do, yes. All right, so then what happened? Are they gone now?”

“No. The operative — his name is really Sholan — gave Cadogan to understand that they would be visiting two other settlements and then visiting the mine complex tomorrow. But that isn’t all. Sabar suggested to Cadogan that he beg a boon from Kasol, to be granted in Bel’s name. He asked Kasol to look into releasing Coll for the sake of his family.”

The colonel blinked. “And did Sholan agree?”

“Yes. So the _cadlywydd_ wanted me to warn you that there will be a party of Goa’uld and Jaffa traveling the road to the mine tomorrow, but that you need only to keep hidden so that none of them detect you or your men. If everything goes according to plan, Coll will go free without either you or Tesni having to do anything.”

 

***

 

The morning sun reflected brightly from the snow-covered ground, in sharp contrast to yesterday’s overcast skies. Last night’s additional snowfall had added perhaps an inch of accumulation, but it was light and powdery rather than heavy and damp, and lay along the branches of the trees overhead like a dusting of well-sifted flour.

The scout shifted in his hiding place, shaking loose a bit of the powdery snow which fell onto his cloak. As he brushed it away, he heard the sound of the ring that occupied the center of the stone circle activating. Peering out from the edge of the treeline, he saw what looked like a gout of water rush forward from the ring, only to be sucked back to form a stable, vertical pool. The effect never ceased to amaze him.

From the center of the pool appeared a figure, followed quickly by several more. The scout counted eight Jaffa as they stepped through the ring, before the shimmering ‘surface’ evaporated with a sizzling snap. The one who appeared to be in charge barked an order, and the others formed up with their weapons at the ready. After a moment, the leader gave another command, and the party moved off toward one of several trails leading away from the compass circle. The one they chose led in the direction of the mining complex.

The scout pursed his lips. There were entirely too many Jaffa about for his taste lately. Pocketing the bit of dried meat he’d been about to snack on when the ring had activated, he turned and began to jog up the trail toward Llanavon, breaking into a run after a few steps. The _cadlywydd_ would want this news quickly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Neb ankh_ — Goa’uld and Tok’ra term for a sarcophagus. It means "possessor of life" in Ancient Egyptian.


	54. Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not smooth sailing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Once again, my deepest apologies for the unconscionable delay between updates. I've been in a state of flux with regard to my work life and my personal life. As of next week, I will have relocated, and will be starting a new job shortly after that. What with everything that's been going on, my ability to write and edit has taken a major hit as my Muse quite understandably went into hiding when the figurative excrement made contact with the proverbial rotary impeller. She has only recently crawled out from behind the sofa and begun to assist me again, though we do seem to have reached an agreement as to how she will handle any future difficulties or upheavals.
> 
> Once I have moved and settled in, I should be returning to a regular update schedule of every ten days to two weeks. I promise to keep you all in the loop should that look to be changing for any reason.
> 
> \- Ana Lake, 6 March 2013

**1440 hours, August 12**

O’Neill scrubbed at eyes gone sandy from staring at the computer screen for the past two hours. They’d finally held the memorial for SG-10 yesterday, after which he’d tried to be as productive as possible. It had been an uphill battle, though, as his mind kept returning to the situation with Frank. Losing Henry Boyd and his team had been bad enough, but being stuck here when he wanted to be on P2A-870 looking for his buddy was driving him up the wall.

He’d spent the better part of today in his office, again trying to accomplish something useful, but his heart just wasn’t into paperwork. Well, really he didn’t have much patience for it under even the best of circumstances, but right now was probably the worst time to be tackling it. _Funny how we still call it ‘paperwork’ even when so much of it’s supposed to be electronic now,_ he mused. _Then again, it isn’t like the military’s going to cut back on its appetite for dead trees anytime soon._

Even as he formed the thought it struck him how much it sounded like something Frank would say. No use denying the extent to which his friend’s habits had rubbed off on him over the years they’d served together. The two of them seemed to have had an effect on each other ever since they’d met in their first week of Special Ops training, to the extent that even eight years of estrangement hadn’t managed to erase Frank’s mark on him. He wondered whether the converse also held true.

Well, if these damned storms on P2A-870 ever let up, maybe he could find out.

As near as he could figure, what was happening there must be something along the lines of a monsoon or maybe a derecho, with multiple cells of storms — some severe — spread out over a long path and passing over the same spot. To have something like that continue for more than two days was unusual, at least on Earth, but who could tell what a normal weather pattern might be for an unexplored alien planet? For all he knew, that storm might be a hurricane, or maybe something like one of New England’s infamous nor’easters, storms that could last for days and dump enormous amounts of precipitation over the landscape. The MALP’s telemetry had indicated increasing winds over the past several queries, which fit any of these profiles.

The thought made him shudder, and he glanced at his watch. 1440 hours. Twenty minutes to go before the next check-in with the MALP left behind at the planet’s storm-besieged gate. _C’mon, let the weather have cleared by then._ He itched to get on with the search. Frank was somewhere on that planet, and he was going to find him come hell or high water. Actually, high water was probably a given, in the wake of the storms, but no matter. Properly-equipped, he and his team and any others the general saw fit to send along as backup would be able to conduct search-and-rescue operations even under extreme conditions if necessary.

“Colonel?”

O’Neill looked up to find Ferretti occupying the doorway. “Lou. How was P4X-293?”

Ferretti ambled into the office and dropped into one of O’Neill’s visitor chairs. “Pink.”

O’Neill raised an eyebrow. “Pink?”

“Yeah. The grass had pink speckles. Weirdest damn thing I’ve seen in a while. Pink leaves on some of the other vegetation, too. Some things that looked kind of like miniature dinosaurs running around. We didn’t see any people, though, or any buildings either. Nothing but nature for miles around, all in pink and green.”

O’Neill shook his head. “Strange. I suppose there’s bound to be a few places like that, though.” He picked up his coffee mug and frowned at the cold half-inch of brown liquid in the bottom before looking back at Ferretti. “Hammond give you any idea where he’d be sending you next?”

Ferretti sat forward in his chair. “To P2A-870 with you, once the weather there clears. We’re gonna help you find Cromwell, Jack.”

 

***

 

Cromwell sat up, uncertain what had awakened him from troubled dreams.

He glanced around at the sleeping forms of his men, then checked his watch. 0537, still long before dawn at this time of year. Not, he reflected, that dawn’s light would penetrate this hiding place even once the sun made its appearance.

The air in the cavern was chilly despite the still-glowing embers of the fire his team had laid the previous night, and his breath misted before his face as he unwrapped himself from the cocoon of blankets in which he’d slept and got to his feet.

A dim shape crouched on the other side of the firepit resolved itself into Armagil, poking at the remains of the fire with a stick. He looked up as the colonel approached. “Good morning, _filwriad_.” Using the stick, he drew a small tin pot from the coals. Its spout steamed gently. “Tea?”

The colonel sat down beside him, gratefully accepting the cup that Armagil poured for him. “Thanks.” His eyes swept the cavern again, counting sleepers. “Who’s on watch at the entrance?”

“Issui. Brioc is due to relieve him in just over an hour. And Tathan is on comm watch, up above in the brush.”

Cromwell nodded, inhaling the fragrant steam from his tea. Last night, by the wan light of Tir Awyr’s smaller moon, they’d identified a spot in the brush covering the hillside above their lair, a space large enough for one man to sit concealed from the road. With any luck, posting someone there with the Tok’bel communication device would allow them to receive signals, though the shifts were of necessity brief due to the winter cold.

Armagil sipped at his own cup before asking, “So the _cadlywydd_ says we have a friend among the Goa’uld visiting Tir Awyr, then? Do you think he’ll succeed in getting Coll free without our needing to take action?”

Cromwell considered this. Surely, if Sabar’s Tok’bel operative were as highly-placed and respected as Cadogan seemed to think, he ought to be able to command Coll’s release — provided he could do so without risking his own cover, of course. “I hope so,” he replied cautiously. “Still, it won’t hurt to be ready, just in case.”

His lieutenant regarded him over the rim of the mug, visibly processing this statement. After swallowing a mouthful of tea, he nodded once. “Right, then. We’ll need to keep a sharp eye out for General Kasol’s party to pass by. At least we’ll know when they reach the mine.”

 

***

 

Tesni glanced across the table at Sorcha and hurried to swallow the last of her porridge as the bell sounded to signal shift change. After sleeping fitfully most of the night, she’d awakened to the sound of Eiluned announcing that their team would be assigned to the sorting-house that morning rather than to the mine galleries belowground. She found the thought appealing, as it might afford her the chance to learn who else might have seen what had happened with Coll or knew his current status. Workers in the mine tunnels were sorted into small groups who had little opportunity to converse with anyone beyond their own half-dozen or fewer workmates. But aboveground, in the sorting and packing areas, it was possible to mingle more freely. She would also find it easier to break away and make contact with Ceinwen if need be.

For that matter, Eiluned herself might well have useful information. The woman was, after all, a rebel agent under deep cover as one of the chief human overseers of the mine complex, and in her cover role was likely to be privy to matters of discipline. As a rebel, surely she would take care to keep abreast of developments that could potentially affect the _Am Rhyddid_. Since virtually anyone might be tied to the rebellion, it made sense for her to assume that any of the miners could be a member, and to work to mitigate any chance of that fact becoming known to the Jaffa. Tesni promised herself that she would seek out a few moments alone with her before the day was done.

Benches scraped the floor as their occupants rose and began to exit the dining hall. “At least we don’t have to spend the day underground,” Sorcha commented, raising her voice to be heard over the din as she stacked her bowl on the counter beside the door. She dropped her spoon into a tub beside the stacked dishes. “That’s some relief, at any rate.”

 

***

 

Cadogan fought off a sense of _gweld yn barod_ as he looked up from his desk. “Another group of Jaffa?” he asked, echoing the words of the scout who’d hurried into the study to stand nervously before him.

The young man nodded, brushing a lock of flaxen hair from his forehead. “I counted eight, _cadlywydd_. They set off along the northern road.”

{They’re likely headed for the mine,} offered Sabar.

 _That’s what I’m afraid of._ Cadogan regarded the scout. “No Goa’uld with them?”

A shake of the fair head. “No, sir.”

Cadogan sighed. “All right. Thank you for bringing the news. I trust you notified the guard captain to send another sentry to take over while you reported to me?”

A nod this time. “I did.”

“Very well, then. Have a meal and a rest, then report back to the captain. Dismissed.”

As the scout made his way from the study, Cadogan massaged his forehead. This was not the sort of news with which he’d hoped to begin the day. _We should warn Neirin._

{Indeed we should} Sabar agreed. {I’m concerned over what exactly to tell him, though. Even we don’t know what’s going on at this point.}

It was vexing, to be sure. Why would Bel send a second squad of Jaffa to Tir Awyr when Sholan — Kasol, Cadogan corrected himself — and his team were already here? Unless… A chill ran down his spine. _You don’t suppose Sholan’s been found out, do you, Sabar? And that this second group of Jaffa are here to deal with him?_

{Anything’s possible.} Sabar’s tone indicated the symbiote was unconvinced, though prudently willing to entertain the idea. {Granted, I shouldn’t think so, given how long Sholan has been under cover in Bel’s service. He’s had time to dig himself in pretty securely, and he’s one of the best operatives we’ve had — the Tok’ra, I mean, not just the Tok’bel. But we can’t afford to rule anything out.}

 _I always suspected Bel might not believe the rebellion was dead and the Tok’bel disbanded, no matter how thorough we’ve been in fabricating the evidence._ Cadogan scrubbed a hand through his hair, the nervous gesture one he’d retained since his youth. _We’ll have to warn Sholan somehow._

{We haven’t any way of getting a message to him. By this time he’s on the road, somewhere between Bren Argoed and the mine. We don’t know for sure that there’s anything to warn him about, and there’s no natural reason for anyone on this world to approach a Goa’uld willingly, nor a Jaffa squad.}

Cadogan stood up and began pacing the room in frustration. _Perhaps Neirin and the Wolves can find some way. We should alert him to the presence of these new Jaffa, regardless._

{We shall, but I can’t think of anything he could do to warn Sholan.} Sabar’s own frustration was apparent from his tone, although he remained calmer than his host. At times, Cadogan found himself envious of the symbiote’s ability to maintain his composure, a skill surely resulting from a lifespan measured in millennia. For all that he’d never developed Selmak’s level of detachment — or even the average Tok’ra’s — Sabar was cooler in the face of crisis than any human.

Their circuit of the study brought them back to the desk, and Cadogan reached for the communication device. _Let us at least hope we can get through to him this time. Ceinwen did say she’d advise Neirin to post one of his men outside the cave system with their communicator._

 

***

 

The candle flickered as Coll shifted on his bunk, making shadows dance crazily on the cell’s far wall. He’d lost all track of time, but surely it had to be long past the point when his workgroup would have returned to Llanavon. He wondered just how long the Jaffa were planning to keep him here, and what they’d do with him after that.

He was mildly surprised that there’d been virtually no questioning, no threats and no torture. The Jaffa had simply carted him off and tossed him in here, then done nothing further with him. Other than the occasional visit from a Jaffa guard who brought him meals and emptied his slop bucket in silence, he’d seen no one.

One Jaffa in particular seemed to have been assigned to this duty, as Coll had seen the same individual on all visits but one. He was notable only for the fact that one of his eyes was bright green while the other was brown. He never touched Coll nor made any threatening motions, instead merely carrying out his tasks efficiently before leaving again. Based on everything he knew about Jaffa, Coll had expected far worse treatment, but these silent encounters were all he’d had since being thrown roughly into the cell by the original pair who’d hauled him bodily from the mine gallery. The physical aches from that experience had begun to fade, another indication of how long he’d been here.

 _Either do something with me or let me go,_ he thought to himself. _It’s this waiting that’s killing me._

 


	55. The Road To Engagement

_"Secrecy, once accepted, becomes an addiction."_ \- Edward Teller, Hungarian-born American theoretical physicist (January 15, 1908 – September 9, 2003)

 

 

Sunlight found a gap in the overcast as Sholan led his party out of the forest on the trail that led from Bren Argoed toward the mine complex several miles distant. Light glaring off the snow-covered landscape caused him to squint slightly as his host's pupils rushed to contract. Not even the enhanced reflexes of a longtime host were instantaneous, he observed wryly.

After delivering the same basic message to the residents of Dinas Coedwyg and Bren Argoed as he'd given in Llanavon, 'General Kasol' and his mixed Goa'uld/Jaffa team had remained overnight in the latter settlement. Privately, Sholan suspected their presence meant that few of the village's residents had slept well last night, and he shared his host's pity for them. Not that he and Brice had passed the most peaceful of nights themselves, given their mutual concern over potential events of the morrow and how to handle the situation of the Llanavoni miner who'd been jailed by the mine's Jaffa guards for transgressions yet unknown. It would be necessary to present the appearance of stern discipline even while meting out mercy in lieu of what most Goa'uld might well regard as the justice due one who'd disobeyed his masters. Cadogan had placed them in a tricky spot, although Sholan was certain that Sabar had prompted this action or at least been involved in the decision behind it. The Tok'bel leader rarely did anything without good reason, so there was little for it but to endeavor to carry out his request as well as possible short of risking Sholan's own cover and that of the Tok'bel as a whole.

He knew the jailed man was in all likelihood a rebel operative, a member of the local _Am Rhyddid_ cell based in Llanavon, and the _cadlywydd_ 's bid to secure his release an attempt at minimizing the odds that his imprisonment might somehow compromise the movement's secrecy. Had Bel not happened to dispatch him to call on Tir n'Awyr just now, Sholan felt certain Sabar and his host would have sought other means to free their man.

A mile or so of travel brought the party to the juncture of their current path with one leading west toward Llanavon. Here the two merged to form a slightly broader road that arrowed straight for the mines, crossing an expanse of gently rolling terrain Sholan knew was largely occupied by pasturage and crops during the summer months. In winter, however, it was a bleak and lonely place.

He paused, noting the frozen wheel ruts half-buried under the previous night's fresh snowfall. The snow made it impossible to pick out the imprint of feet or hooves and thus the direction of travel, but Sholan surmised he was likely seeing marks left by the return of the mining party of which Cadogan had spoken. A scan of the landscape revealed nothing amiss, and he set off along the main roadway, motioning his companions to follow.

  


***

  


Tesni stepped carefully over the muddy slush pooled just outside the sorting facility's doorway where a gap between two flagstones had filled with snowmelt and churned earth, presenting a hazard to unwary feet. Shielding her eyes against the bright sunlight, she made her way toward the women's sanitary facilities — little more than a squat hut built of grey stone blocks and roofed with thatch, set hard against the mining complex's perimeter.

Just beyond the structure, the landscape rose in a scrub-covered hillside. The evergreen of low bushes contrasted with the grey of loose rock and the reflective white of snow, producing a broken pattern that provided effective cover for Ceinwen, who materialized silently as Tesni rounded the corner of the hut. Plucking at the hood of her grey-green cloak, she whispered, "News?"

Tesni shook her head. "Nothing yet," she replied, her own voice pitched low. "I'm working aboveground at the moment, and when I get a chance I intend to question Eiluned discreetly. Haven't yet had the opportunity to catch her alone, though given that we're supposed to have visitors today, I hope Cadogan's plan works and Coll goes free without incident."

Ceinwen nodded, tucking back a curl of fair hair that had escaped from her hood. "Even if he does, I'll wager things are likely to get a bit complicated around here after that. I was on rotation myself the last time Bel sent any sort of Goa'uld delegation here, several years back. You'd have thought the entire place was being run by a collection of nervous cats once they left. Be glad you'll only have five more days before returning home."

"They can't pass quickly enough." Tesni drew her cloak tighter, shivering slightly; it was chillier here in the shadow of the building than in direct sunlight. "I should get back to work before someone wonders what's taking me so long."

"Yes, do." Ceinwen turned to slip back into the cover of the scrub, then glanced back over her shoulder. "I'm going to try and observe Kasol's — Sholan's — visit from up among the trees here, but in case I can't, I'll need you to meet me at shift change and tell me what happened."

  


***

  


Sholan halted, surveying the snowy landscape. Now no more than a mile and a half from the mine complex, he'd noted only occasional signs of human passage other than the wagon ruts that were a more-or-less continuous feature of the route they traveled. A few faint lines of footprints had either crossed or diverged from the road, indicating the presence of hunting parties or the inhabitants of the few isolated farms that surely dotted these parts if the local inhabitants followed the same pattern as Brice's own people.

Another such trackline diverged here, barely visible beneath the latest snow cover and running in the direction of a sparsely-wooded hillside whose crest was topped with a denser growth of forest. Although the faintness of the tracks made it difficult to tell with any certainly how many pairs of feet had passed this way, Sholan estimated there had to have been at least five. {Hunting party, or something else?} he asked Brice.

_It could easily be a hunting party,_ his host replied. _And if not… well, would you really be surprised if Cadogan has a squad stationed in the area in case of trouble?_

{Not at all.} Sholan glanced at the hillside again before looking up at the sky. The sun had completed roughly one-half of its steady climb toward the zenith. {Time to pick up the pace and complete the mission.} He turned to the rest of his party and gestured sharply, then set off once more in the direction of the mine.

  


***

  


  


From his vantage point in the cover of the trees near the hilltop above the cave entrance, Cromwell watched the figures clustered along the road move out. At least Sabar's Tok'bel colleague wouldn't have to engage in damage control over the discovery of an armed Pridanic party in hiding just off the road.

The colonel's sigh of relief condensed in the frosty air, and he shivered, rubbing knees once more gone stiff from the cold. Countless landings in drop zones scattered around the globe — Earth's, not this world's — had been bound to take their toll sooner or later, he supposed, though he'd not experienced too much trouble until after one particularly difficult drop about three years ago, when Warfield had 'chute trouble and managed to careen into him just before landing, entangling them both in the lines and bringing them down hard. Riker had harassed his buddy over it after the mission, while Cromwell had nursed sore knees in characteristic silence, brushing off the concern of Sergeant Douglas, the team's medic.

Not for the first time, he wished for a pair of binoculars so that he might have gotten a closer look as the visitors passed by. While Tok'bel technology surely included such devices or something similar, he was less certain about the state of Pridanic optical science. He'd seen the occasional pair of spectacles in use among the general populace and had also been made aware, via a book from Cadogan's library, of the existence of simple refracting telescopes. However, he'd yet to see an example of even a simple spyglass in field use on any of the Celtic worlds, let alone an honest-to-God pair of binocs. After more than one exercise or mission he'd mulled over the idea of suggesting them. After all, it wasn't as if the native tech could be all that far off from developing such an apparatus independently. But the problem of how to couch the idea in such a way as to avoid raising yet more questions regarding his origins had stayed his tongue. He also wondered whether there might be some specific reason why Sabar had not seen fit to introduce the concept himself, by way of Cadogan.

Knowing the likely reaction of his Wolves should they become aware of the presence of Goa'uld and Jaffa visitors had presented Cromwell with a dilemma. His instinct for sharing information on a strictly need-to-know basis had prompted him to keep the knowledge of Sholan's identity to himself after Ceinwen's revelation. After all, he'd reasoned, limiting the number of people who knew the Tok'bel even had a highly-placed operative within Bel's military staff — let alone who that operative was — meant greater security both for Sholan and the other Tok'bel, and for the rebellion overall. If all went well the Wolves would never need to know that 'General Kasol' was on their side.. He'd cautioned Ceinwen to keep the news to herself during dinner and only afterward taken Armagil aside and shared the information with him, both as a courtesy between officers and in case everything went off the rails. Aside from a few low-voiced words exchanged over tea before dawn while the rest of the team slept, they'd not spoken of Sholan or his party since last night.

Overruling his 2IC's brief protest, he'd laid out his plan: He and Armagil would say nothing of the off-world visitors, merely instructing the others to remain hidden in the inner chamber from two hours past dawn through the main part of the day, on the pretext of Ceinwen's having noticed the presence of other hunting parties camped in the area the night before and that too many armed Pridani too close to the mine complex might arouse the suspicions of its resident Jaffa guardians. He and Armagil would divide the morning's watch between them, alternating comms duty on the hillside and guarding the cave mouth.

Reflexively, he felt in his belt pouch for the communicator Cadogan had sent with him, running his fingers over its smooth surface as though it were a worry-stone. He'd taken the mid-morning comms watch himself, hoping for a glimpse of this Sholan, so he could fix the operative's image in his mind. His own desire to actually lay eyes on the general was, he told himself, merely a hedge against something altering his original plan, although he had to admit privately to a touch of curiosity as well. Three hours of waiting in the morning chill had rewarded him with a glimpse of the Tok'bel spy and a dull ache in both knees.

Releasing the communicator, he dug in his pouch for the small vial of willow-bark tincture before realizing he'd left it in his pack, down in the cavern below. Pursing his lips and squinting against the glare of sun on snow, the colonel watched as the visitors rounded a shallow bend in the road to disappear behind a neighboring hill. He checked his watch, counted sixty seconds in his head, checked again, then stood and made his way downslope to the cave mouth where Armagil waited. As he ducked beneath the low overhang that sheltered the entrance, his 2IC held out a hand to take the communications device, ready to begin his own turn at comms watch. "I'd have come up to you in a few more minutes," the younger man commented.

"I know, but better only one of us moving around out there just now, on the off chance someone in that party had doubled back for whatever reason. Less chance of being noticed." Cromwell carefully avoided any mention of the other reason for his hasty return.

Brioc approached just as he finished speaking. "Noticed by whom?"

"Hunters, probably the ones Ceinwen spotted yesterday," said Armagil without missing a beat. "I thought you and the others understood you were to keep to the inner chamber. You carried that reminder yourself when you went off guard duty three hours ago."

Brioc shook his head. "Begging your pardon, sirs, but things are getting a wee bit close back there, if you catch my meaning. And in any case, I'm not sure I understand exactly why it is we're worried about being spotted by a hunting party. They're our own folk after all, aren't they?"

Armagil met Cromwell's eyes in a wordless exchange. The younger officer was already on record as disliking the use of subterfuge in dealing with their own personnel, and despite his long-standing commitment to secrecy, Cromwell found he couldn't really blame him. Adding in the fact that the _Am Rhyddid_ simply did not operate in the same manner as the US Air Force only served to heighten his internal conflict. These men trusted him. Reciprocity was not only a courtesy, he realized, but a requirement if he was to continue this command. At the very least, he felt he owed Brioc something, given that it was his best friend in Jaffa captivity.

He cleared his throat and fixed Brioc with a stern gaze. "Fine. You'll keep this to yourself, understood?"

Brioc nodded.

"There are Goa'uld in the area." Brioc started, opening his mouth to speak, but Cromwell held up a hand to stay his tongue. "I'm not finished. Ceinwen brought word last night that the Tok'bel have a spy embedded in Bel's military hierarchy. That operative happens to be in charge of a delegation of Goa'uld and Jaffa currently visiting this world. They visited Llanavon yesterday, and _cadlywydd_ spoke with him. Under the guise of begging a boon from the emissary of Bel, he requested the operative's help in freeing Coll. Speaking as Bel's emissary, the operative agreed to do so as a gesture of 'divine' benevolence. We may not need to do anything at all."

He watched Brioc digest this information. "Why did you not share this with the men, _filwriad_?"

"Security reasons. The fewer who know about the Tok'bel operative, the better. Less risky for him, and for the movement. But if I told them there was a Goa'uld contingent snooping around and didn't make them aware it was actually led by an ally, you know as well as I do what their reaction would be."

Brioc glanced at Armagil, who shrugged minutely.

Turning his attention back to the colonel, he said, "I see." Brioc's voice was tight. "I understand about secrecy, Neirin. We've kept our movement out of Bel's awareness since my grandfather's time, you know. But not sharing something this important with your men… " He trailed off, clearly searching for the right words to convey his thoughts.

"If you've kept the rebellion secret that long, Brioc, then surely there've been many secrets not shared openly throughout the ranks," Cromwell pointed out.

"True, but… " Brioc shook his head. "Neirin, I'm aware you aren't from around here. I was there the day you arrived, remember, and I'm pretty sure you aren't even from Tir 'nAwyr. You haven't much accent these days, but what you do have isn't from any settlement I've encountered, and I've spoken to folks from all over the Northern Lands."

Cromwell considered this. He knew Brioc's past; knew he had seafaring kin to whom he'd been apprenticed when he was not much older than Ris. Once, over cups of ale at the Leaping Stag, Brioc had related how he'd spent roughly three years on trading ships that plied the ports of this world's northern hemisphere where the bulk of its population was concentrated, most of them around the _Nghanol Mor_ or Central Sea, before concluding that the life of a sea trader didn't quite suit him and returning to Llanavon.

"I grew up pretty far from any seaport, Brioc," he said truthfully. "Anyway, what does that have to do with what we're talking about?"

"Your accent's wrong for the south, too," the other man went on. "Wherever you're from, it isn't on this world. Given that, I understand you may be used to a different way, but our way is to trust the folk who have your back. For all that you're an officer and I'm not, we're on the same team and so are the men in that chamber." He jerked a thumb toward the passageway. "You've led us through danger and back out the other side, and we've hauled you out of harm's way more than once ourselves. If there's something you know that might affect our mission, don't you think we deserve to know about it?"

Cromwell's jaw clenched. Armagil had given him much the same argument last night, albeit in abbreviated form and without the commentary regarding his origins. The colonel understood only too well where both men were coming from. Hell, hadn't he experienced his own set of problems as a result of the heavy veil of secrecy expected of him during his years of service on Earth? His marriage had unraveled as a result of it, and then there was the time Jack had risked his life in orbit while virtually no one on the ground had any inkling the planet was even in danger…

But damn it, there was good reason to keep secrets. Wasn't there? "Supposing something should happen to one or more of you," he said, his gaze sweeping from Brioc to Armagil and back again. "Supposing it landed one of our number in a position to be taken prisoner — like Coll — or worse yet, taken as a host? The Goa'uld would potentially have access to anything you knew, but you can't give up knowledge you don't have."

Brioc had gone pale at the mention of Coll. Now his eyes glittered dangerously. "Neirin, do you think you know that better than we do? I still think we deserve to be aware of things that affect our mission, and it's up to us to deal with the contingencies presented in the event of possible capture. Besides, according to the Tok'bel, when the Goa'uld take a host they hold the host's consciousness in such disdain that they rarely bother sifting through the contents of his or her mind. If it were otherwise, I doubt there'd still be an _Am Rhyddid_ to concern ourselves with. You can ask Cadogan about that if you like."

"Brioc," began Armagil.

"By thunder!" Brioc rounded on his comrade. "I know you're second in command, and we all take orders from Neirin, but you've been in this movement for years. You know how we've always done things."

Armagil glanced from his teammate to his CO, clearly torn between loyalties. Cromwell found he couldn't blame the younger man, having been in the same position more than once in his own career. On the other hand, he wasn't accustomed to having his orders questioned openly, not even under the admittedly relaxed discipline with which the rebels operated. He knew it wasn't at all unheard-of, and in fact had witnessed such things directly during his time among them. He'd even questioned Cadogan's own plans himself on occasion. But he ran a tighter unit than most of his fellow _filwriadau_ and his reputation reflected that. For someone like Brioc, who'd been on his team since he'd taken command, or Armagil — who was himself an officer through Cromwell's own recommendation — to engage him in this manner was out of line.

_Or is it?_ asked a nagging voice in the back of his head. _You aren't on Earth anymore, and these people obviously play by different rules._

He shoved the thought aside. Tempers were high right now and with good reason, but that was no excuse to take unnecessary risks. "Both of you, stop. And that's an order."

Silence reigned for a beat. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing himself to the patience needed to speak calmly. "I understand your protests, and they are duly noted. For right now, however, we do this my way. Brioc, I've told you what's going on as a courtesy. You will keep the knowledge to yourself until or unless I instruct you otherwise. Are we clear on this?"

Brioc nodded. "Aye, _filwriad_."

Armagil echoed the nod. "I'm sorry, sir."

"No apology necessary. You've done nothing wrong." Cromwell held out the communicator. "You're on comms duty; get up there."

Brioc interrupted, his tone conciliatory. "Neirin, I had a short shift earlier; I'll take this one. I could use some time alone anyway."

Cromwell eyed him for a moment before handing over the device. "Fair enough. I'll send someone to relieve you in two hours."

  


***

  


"Uncle to Wolf Den." Silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the study's hearth. Cadogan frowned at the communicator before keying its transmitter and speaking into it again. "Wolf Den, this is Uncle. Please respond."

There was a pop as sparks shot upward from the flaming logs, but the device in his hand remained stubbornly quiet. _By thunder,_ now _what's the problem?_

{Good question.} The frustration in Sabar's tone mirrored that felt by his host.

_You don't suppose that second Jaffa team has reached those caves yet and found Neirin and his team, do you? I shouldn't think they've moved that quickly in just this short a time._

{I doubt it,} Sabar reassured him. {Give it a few moments, and we'll try again. In the meanwhile, let's contact Ceinwen.}

  


***

  


The small vibration from her belt pouch roused Ceinwen from her contemplation of the snowy landscape surrounding the mine complex. Except for her brief meetings with Tesni at the perimeter of the camp and her excursions to the Black Wolves' lair in the old pilot mining works a mile away, she'd spent most of the past two days hidden among the trees at the top of the hill just behind the women's facilities. Wearing a grey-green cloak whose weave formed a mottled pattern intended to blend in with her surroundings, she'd felt relatively invisible, provided she remained still. More than one _Am Rhyddid_ operative owned a cloak like this for use on spying missions.

Drawing the communications device from her pouch, she activated it. Cadogan's voice issued from its speaker, just loud enough to be heard. "Uncle to Vixen."

She pressed the key that would allow her to respond, then spoke softly into the pickup. "This is Vixen. Go ahead."

Her blood ran cold as the _cadlywydd_ explained that a second troop of Jaffa had arrived through the door-between-worlds and appeared to be headed toward the mine. "You've informed the Wolves of this, surely?"

"No, I haven't been able to raise them yet," Cadogan replied. "I'll try again in a moment, but if I can't make contact, I'll need you to carry the message."

"Aye…" Ceinwen froze as she heard the snap of a twig behind her. She'd been sitting just inside the edge of the wooded area, looking downslope toward the mining camp. It was virtually unheard-of for a hunting party to venture this close to the mine. Had she been spotted by the camp's Jaffa guards, and someone been sent to apprehend her?

She thumbed the communicator's controls to standby and risked the motion involved to glance over her shoulder, but the dense branches of the surrounding trees — she'd taken shelter tucked up against a stand of fir — impeded her view. The communicator vibrated again, but she ignored it, listening intently to her surroundings. She heard another snap, sounding closer than the previous one. _Could be Jaffa,_ she thought, _but then it could be anything, even just some animal._

The sound of voices reached her then. "You'd think we'd find more than rabbits, hey? The _anghredaduniaid_ dare not hunt this close to the mine, so there ought to be deer." The speaker was male, youngish-sounding, and had a slight tendency to swallow the final consonant of his words. That and his use of the archaic and somewhat pejorative term for unbelievers indicated that he belonged to Clan Talorc.

He was answered by a second voice, also male. "It's been a thin winter for everyone, Iolo. Even the deer, or we'd not be hunting so far afield ourselves."

Ceinwen sat motionless, wondering whether there were only the two of them. Few Pridanic or Alban hunters came within a mile or so of the mining camp, preferring to give it a wide berth. Seeming to sense that the area immediately surrounding the camp was a place of relative safety, local game tended to congregate there. In lean times Clan Talorc, the Bel loyalists who lived in relative isolation amid a ridge of low mountains some miles to the northwest, occasionally sent parties to hunt in what was thus effectively a small game preserve passively guarded by the presence of the Deceiver's Jaffa minions.

That it had also served as her hiding place for the past two days now placed her in a precarious position. If she moved from the spot where she sat, it was likely she'd be heard and followed, the sound of her passage causing them to mistake her for a deer until they drew close enough to realize she was human — which would lead to its own set of problems. If she remained in place, there was a chance the hunters might veer off in another direction without ever knowing she was here. She opted to sit tight and hope.

The communicator vibrated again, and she shut it off. Cadogan might fear the worst, but if she spoke now those fears would be made manifest. Better to let him only think she'd been captured.

  


***

  


Brioc turned the conversation with Neirin over and over in his mind as he sat watching the road. It wasn't as if he didn't understand the need for secrecy. By thunder, the _Am Rhyddid_ had operated securely for generations squarely under the nose of the Deceiver and his lackeys, not to mention the small minority of loyalist clans inhabiting Tyr 'nAwyr. They must be doing something right. Likewise, the Tok'bel had escaped notice for ninety years now, since his great-grandfather's day. But every man in the cavern below was sworn to the rebel cause and would dispatch himself to the grave before revealing intelligence to the enemy. Surely Neirin must know that?

He wondered on occasion where Neirin hailed from. In his brief career as a sea trader's apprentice, Brioc had encountered nearly every accent found on Tir 'nAwyr. He had a gifted ear for such things, and it had been clear to him from the first that Neirin was not from this world. The _cadlywydd_ had quickly placed under orders everyone who knew of the man's arrival — Brioc had been attached to Celyn's team at the time and was among those who'd fought at the compass circle against Jaffa they now surmised had actually belonged to Moccas — instructing them to engage in no open speculation about the origins of the mysterious stranger who'd acquitted himself so admirably in the fray. Obviously Cadogan found the man useful enough to have brought him in from wherever he'd found him, despite the necessity of acclimating him to local ways before putting him in charge of a team. Neirin himself virtually never spoke of his homeworld, which indicated to Brioc that he'd likely left some tragedy behind him. Either that, or he'd spent so long undercover that the habits of deep secrecy had become ingrained.

Brioc supposed that might sufficiently explain Neirin's extreme reluctance to share information even with his men. The principle of 'need to know' was something they all understood, even if right now he and Neirin disagreed over who had that need and why. Regardless, the _filwriad_ was a good commander, and loyalty demanded obedience.

The communications device tucked into his belt pouch vibrated, interrupting Brioc's thoughts. He withdrew it, tapping a control, and Cadogan's voice issued from the speaker. "Uncle to Wolf Den."

Was that a trace of agitation coloring the _cadlywydd_ 's normally calm tone? "Wolf Den here; go ahead."

Moments later, he scrambled down the hillside and into the cave. Armagil shot him a questioning look that was rapidly supplanted by surprise as Brioc blurted, "We've got trouble. There's a second squad of Jaffa possibly headed this way, and Ceinwen just dropped out of contact as Cadogan was speaking with her."

Upon reporting the same thing to Neirin in the inner chamber, Brioc watched his commander's face go through at least three different permutations of worry. "Sir, if you don't mind, I think we — "

"Two minutes. Gather your gear, and I'll address everyone at once," Neirin said sharply.


	56. In The Belly Of The Beast

_If you hear the dogs, keep going. If you see the torches in the woods, keep going. If there’s shouting after you, keep going. Don’t ever stop. Keep going. If you want a taste of freedom, keep going._ — Harriet Tubman

 

 

Tesni straightened from the sorting table and stretched her back while dusting her work gloves one against the other. Sorting the chunks of naquadah-bearing rock from the odds and ends of inert material that tended to get mixed in with it was a tiring affair that led to stiff muscles and numb feet.

She glanced up and down the table at her co-workers. Sorcha stood across from her, head down as she focused on her work. Enfys was near the end of the table, her husband Cornan beside her. She could just see the back of Aeddon ab Amig’s curly head among the workers surrounding the next table over, with two more of the Llanavoni contingent beside him. The sorting-house was crowded and a bit overwarm with the press of so many bodies, though the warmth was welcome given the wintry chill outside.

There was a hubbub near the door, and several workers moved to peer out, then quickly backed up as Eiluned entered. “All right, all of you outside! We have visitors and everyone is to assemble in the courtyard.”

Tesni shuffled outside with the rest of the workers, blinking as her eyes adjusted to brightness. At one end of the facility’s central yard stood a raised dais often used by the mine captain or Jaffa guards to address the assembled laborers. A line of Jaffa occupied the platform now, sunlight reflecting dully off the stylized ram’s-horns of their helmets. The light illuminated even more thoroughly a trio of unhelmeted figures who stood just in front of them. The central one wore a gold-washed breastplate while his two companions wore its counterparts in a copper hue. _These must be ‘General Kasol’ and his lieutenants._

More laborers began to pour into the yard from the mine entrance and the barracks as every work detail assembled to attend the visitors. The air was filled with the muted buzz of conversation as speculation mounted over the purpose of this visit. Several minutes passed and speculation grew ever wilder until the head of the mine’s Jaffa guard barked, _“Kree!”_ and a hush fell over the crowd. Everyone recognized that command, even if it was the only word of Goa’uld they knew.

The general stepped forward. From her vantage point close to the front of the throng, Tesni could see the expression on his face — a mixture of haughtiness and severity, like some terrible judge set to condemn them. Then again, she knew from talking with Ceinwen that Sholan was playing exactly such a role. When he began to speak a moment later, it was clear he was delivering the same chastisement he’d given in Llanavon’s square the day before. Listening with half her attention, she devoted the other half to watching the mine staff react to his words. Eiluned’s face remained unsurprisingly impassive while that of Gethen, the swarthy mine captain whose mother was from Clan Talorc, bore a grimace that boded a none-too-comfortable future for those currently on work rotation.

The general’s words rang out over the assembled laborers, his harmonic-laced voice echoing unpleasantly from the stone surfaces of barracks and cliff-face. There was something about the tone of voice used by the Goa’uld, or by a Tok’ra operative masquerading as one, that made Tesni’s ears itch in a way Sabar’s voice did not.

Beside her, Sorcha twitched and whispered, “I think I’d rather be hacking at ore with a dull pick than listen to him. What in thunder brought this visit on?”

Tesni could only shake her head. She knew the answer to that question, of course, but couldn’t share it. She gave Sorcha an elaborate shrug by way of response and focused on the general’s address, searching his words for any possibility of hidden content beyond their surface meaning.

 

 

***

 

 

“Get up.”

Coll jerked awake at the Jaffa’s words. He’d been half-dozing in his cell, having lost all track of time down here in the constant, candle-lit dimness. Looking up, he saw the same Jaffa guard with mismatched eyes who’d brought most of his meals over however long he’d been in here — was it three days? Four? More than that?

“Get up,” the Jaffa commanded him again, unlocking the door to his cell. “You have been summoned.”

 _That_ sounded ominous. “Summoned by whom?” Coll asked, his voice creaking from disuse.

The Jaffa raised one eyebrow slightly at the question. “By the emissary of our Lord Bel. He has ordered us to present you to him. You will come with me now.”

Coll’s heart began to pound as he sat up on the narrow bunk, swinging his legs over the side. _A Goa’uld emissary here, in the mining camp? Or do they mean to take me off-world?_

The guard had opened his cell door while speaking, and closed it behind himself before advancing with a set of manacles connected by a short, stout chain. “Your hands.”

Visions of being questioned, even tortured, flooded through Coll’s mind. He pushed them away, only to be struck by another thought: Being taken as a host. _No!_ He would find a way to prevent that, whatever the cost.

The Jaffa gestured with the chain. “Your hands,” he repeated.

Coll looked around wildly, but there was only one way out of the cell, of course — and the Jaffa was blocking the door. The guard reached out and grabbed his wrists, shackling them together with deft movements. He tugged, testing the bonds, then nodded to himself. “Come.”

Coll only stared at him.

“Now.” The guard pulled him upright, using the chain between his wrists. “The general is waiting.”

 

 

***

 

 

Ceinwen shifted position, careful to avoid making a sound. Her feet were going numb with cold, though at least her hands were warm. She’d quietly activated the _net’ik_ , the Tok’bel warming device, hugging it close against her body and resting her hands against its surface. She longed to contact Cadogan, who by now must surely fear the worst, but dared not. She’d heard the pair of hunters settle in only a few yards behind her position some time ago to wait for game. The last thing she needed was for them to detect her presence, let alone discover her in possession of technology supposedly available only to their alien overlords. _I wish they’d hurry up and go. They can’t be any more comfortable than I am, sitting still back there in the woods without even a heat source._

At least she still had a clear view of events in the camp below through a gap in the screen of fir branches. She’d watched with interest as a group of figures appeared around the bend in the road leading to the camp’s main gate, resolving themselves into several Jaffa in dull iron-colored armor and three Goa’uld clad in brighter copper and gold. The flurry of activity their arrival touched off in the camp itself reminded her of the time she’d deliberately kicked an ant heap as a nine-year-old child.

Now she watched intently as the camp’s laborers assembled before the dais where their visitors stood. The courtyard was nearly filled, although a few stragglers still made their way from the direction of the lift entrance. They were likely the last crews to be brought topside, and found their places as the gold-clad Goa’uld in the center of the visiting formation stepped forward and began to speak. Ceinwen couldn’t make out his words at this distance, though she strained to hear.

The sound of a twig snapping made her start. Footfalls approached from behind, and the voice of one of the hunters reached her ears. “Eh, we’ve been waiting long enough. There’s nothing going ta come along this trail.” The speaker was Young Hunter, from the sound of him.

“Ye may be right, a’ that,” replied his companion. “We’ll make for the road an’ circle back to the marsh. Might be some early geese, this close ta spring.”

The footfalls grew closer, rustling in the brush. Heart pounding, Ceinwen deactivated the _net’ik_ and stuffed it into the small leather satchel that hung on its strap over one shoulder and across her chest. She rose to a crouch, gauging her best avenue of escape. The trails behind her in the forest were inaccessible, given that was the direction from which the two hunters were closing in. Moving forward downslope might be the best course, if only because all attention in the mining camp was likely to be riveted on the general and his party. A small gully ran along one side of the compound, where fir and holly screened the course of a small stream. She’d briefly considered it as a hiding place when planning her portion of this mission, but it received little sunlight and in winter weather was apt to be even chillier than the wooded hilltop. Helpful though it might be, the _net’ik_ was no substitute for a campfire. The gully might serve her now, however, if she could make it there before the hunters broke from the trees, and without being noticed by anyone in the camp itself.

She timed her escape with the crackle of the pair’s approach, hoping it would cover the sound of her own movements. Breaking from the shelter of the fir trees she scuttled, crablike, downslope. Perhaps sixty yards separated her from the gully’s embankment. Some of that distance was brush-covered, while other portions were wide open and white with snow she dared not cross lest her tracks give her away.

Her breath ragged and pulse pounding in her own ears, she moved onward, zigzagging from spot to spot through tufts of tall grass that broke the surface of the snow. They might obscure her passage, even though they prolonged her journey toward safety.

A cry from upslope alerted her to the fact that she’d been spotted. “Hey-o! Wait up!”

Did they mistake her for another member of what might be a scattered party? Not that it helped much, as a closer look would reveal her to be no one they knew, and if she spoke her accent would give her away as belonging to one of the ‘Unbeliever’ clans. At the same time, now that she’d been spotted, continuing toward the gully would surely mark her as a fugitive of some sort, which was even worse. She had no choice but to brazen it out and attempt to pass for a random lone hunter desperate enough to trespass up against the mining compound.

She poked at the ground, pretending to search for signs of recent passage by prey, then straightened as the pair approached. Younger Hunter looked at her and blinked. His elder companion peered at her through narrowed eyes, though he gave a curt nod before turning his attention downslope toward the mine.

Younger Hunter spoke first. “Good day.”

Ceinwen carefully kept her expression neutral. “Good day.”

Before either of them could speak again, Elder Hunter seized his companion by the shoulder. “Iolo, look. An emissary of Lord Bel, in the courtyard!”

Iolo’s eyes widened as he followed his elder’s gaze. “A holy messenger,” he breathed, bowing his head and tugging at his forelock in a gesture of obeisance.

The other man echoed the gesture, then looked pointedly at Ceinwen. “ _Anghrediniwr_ ,” he spat.

Unbeliever. Infidel. Of course, that was what Clan Talorc called their less-than-devout neighbors. Ceinwen had little contact with the Talorcii, and preferred it that way.

“What are ye doing here?” asked Elder Hunter.

“Hunting, the same as you.” She gestured toward the short-bow and quiver slung on her back.

“Your kind don’t hunt this land.” There was suspicion in his eyes. “Why are ye here?”

She drew herself up, lifting her chin. “This winter has been lean for all of us, and this is no more Talorc’s land than anyone’s.”

Iolo nudged his friend. “We should take her to pay her respects, eh?” he suggested with an unpleasant chuckle.

Elder Hunter grinned, exposing yellowed teeth. “Indeed we should.” He made as if to grasp her arm.

Ceinwen backed away, just out of reach. “Leave me alone. I am a daughter of Clan Branoc, and by the treaty between our clans, you have no right to touch me.”

The man’s eyes glittered dangerously. “I am a dedicant of Our Lord Bel, and have served him as a priest.” He pushed back his hood, revealing grey-shot hair and a blue spiral tattoo that wound its way from his jawline to pass behind one ear and re-emerge at his temple, where it was crossed with the red knot that marked those who had completed a seven-year span of their lives as a priest of the Deceiver. “His authority supersedes all else.”

“I said don’t touch me.” Her hand went to her belt, and the dagger she carried. Steel hissed softly as she drew the blade.

Elder Hunter laughed, an evil sound. “Ye want to play at knives, do ye?” In one swift motion he produced a dagger of his own, in his left hand. He and Ceinwen circled each other for a moment, feinting and jabbing, until the older man lunged forward. At the same time, Iolo slipped unexpectedly to her left, his hands outstretched to grasp at her. Ceinwen aimed a kick in his direction, hoping to trip him, but her foot tangled in the tall, brittle grass. A split-second later, her dagger was on the ground and the two men had her pinned between them. “Now ye’ll come and pay proper respect to the gods.”

“Let me go!” Ceinwen squirmed in their grip but they clamped down harder on her arms, threatening the circulation, and began marching her toward the compound.

 

 

***

 

 

Cromwell cursed under his breath as his heel skidded on the rime of ice that coated the flat rocks of the embankment. He grabbed a low-hanging branch and regained his balance, then turned to look back at the men still making their way single-file along the fallen log that crossed the narrow stream behind him. “Watch your footing,” he warned, pitching his voice just loudly enough to reach them but low enough to go no farther.

He’d briefed his team before leading them out of the cavern where they’d holed up, imparting the bare minimum of information necessary to their understanding of the mission. He’d included the fact that ‘General Kasol’ was really a Tok’bel operative, whereupon his men had immediately begun to speculate on the identity of the second Jaffa team Cadogan had warned them about. He’d quashed that at the first mention. “We honestly don’t know who they belong to,” he’d reminded his men, “and a wrong guess could be deadly. We’ll have to observe them in order to know for sure.” He wasn’t quite certain why Brioc’s approving nod at the statement — caught from the corner of his eye — should warm his spirit, but it had.

Upon leaving the cavern they’d avoided the road, making instead for the backcountry trail that Ceinwen had used to carry messages. Now less than a quarter-mile from the mining camp’s perimeter, they followed the path along the floor of a narrow gully that skirted the compound.

Cromwell stepped up onto a large root of the tree whose branch he’d grabbed, and waited for his men to reach the flattened bank just below it. The little stream chuckled beneath its layer of ice, filling the gully with its quiet echo. When the Wolves had gathered in a semicircle, he cleared his throat, then spoke quietly. “I want two volunteers to scout ahead.”

Brioc raised his hand before the colonel even finished speaking. Pyr’s went up a fraction of a second later. Cromwell nodded. “All right. Both of you make your way up to the perimeter and see what’s happening. I want to know how many Goa’uld are present, and how many Jaffa. If that second group has arrived yet, I want to know about that too. One of you will report back here, while the other remains on watch. Be careful they don’t spot you, but get as much information as you can.”

The two men nodded and moved off up the trail. Cromwell watched their retreating backs for a moment, then turned to the rest of his team. “We’ll wait here until we have their report. Make yourselves comfortable, but stay alert.”

Taking his own advice, he settled himself at the base of the tree where the protruding root he’d stood on while speaking formed a sort of seat. It was by no means warm, but at least it wasn’t as cold as the snowy ground or the water-worn rocks that littered the gully’s floor. He estimated the temperature to be somewhere in the upper twenties Fahrenheit — just below freezing, but not dangerously cold as long as one was warmly dressed or kept moving.

 

 

***

 

 

Coll stumbled into the courtyard, sandwiched between the Jaffa guard with mismatched eyes and another with nut-brown skin and dark hair the texture of wool. Sunlight hurt his eyes after so long in the dim confines of his cell, and he felt them begin to water. Squinting against the glare, he peered about, noting the throng of workers assembled in the morning chill.

A Goa’uld voice was speaking in harmonic-laced tones. {“— henceforth to increase your output and this world’s yield. Lord Bel is a just god, gracious to those who labor on his behalf and who keep his commandments… ”}

Coll resisted the urge to spit. Bel, the gracious and just? What a crock.

His captors tugged him in the direction of the small dais that occupied one end of the courtyard. He could see more Jaffa lined up on it, behind a figure in copper and gold — the Goa’uld addressing the crowd. Two more Goa’uld flanked the speaker. Fear clenched his gut, and he slowed. The guards yanked him roughly forward, marching him to the base of the stone steps.

The Goa’uld turned glowing eyes in his direction. {“Bring him,”} the harmonic voice intoned.

Hands shoved him onto the first step. Was he to be executed in full view of his fellows at the capricious whim of one of the Deceiver’s minions? He’d have preferred to die fighting for his people’s freedom… or, truth be told, in bed years hence as a grizzled veteran. No matter, he told himself, pushing fear to a far corner of his mind and straightening to ascend the steps and meet his fate with as much dignity as he could muster.

Another Jaffa grabbed him at the top of the steps and steered him toward the Goa’uld who was speaking. Guided to a stop mere feet from the speaker, Coll found his eyes drawn to the crowd. As he searched for familiar faces, he noticed a flicker of movement near the edge of the courtyard. Two figures appeared to be force-marching a third between them toward the assembly. The third figure was slighter than the others and struggled against their grip. All three were human, and the one held captive appeared to be… female?

The trio skirted the assembled crowd and approached the dais while two Jaffa from the mine’s own contingent moved to intercept them. The Goa’uld who’d been delivering his speech fell silent as they met at one corner of the raised platform, but Coll couldn’t make out the rapid conversation between the newcomers and the guards. The Jaffa behind him gripped his shoulders tightly in a gesture clearly meant to signal that he should remain still. Coll simply stared at the other captive. It was Ceinwen verch Dilys. What was she doing here?

 

 

***

 

 

Sholan scowled at the trio whose approach had interrupted his address. He’d ordered the prisoner’s shackles removed and had been about to announce the man’s pardon, but now he’d have to deal with whatever problem these men and their captive represented. From their appearance, none of the three belonged to the mining camp’s workforce.

One of the Jaffa who’d intercepted the trio spoke. “How dare you approach the Emissary of Bel uninvited?”

“We come to pay our respects,” said the elder of the two men. “I am a priest of Bel, and offer here a sacrifice.” He shoved the young woman forward.

 _Wonderful,_ Brice said silently. _As if we needed one of those._

{Indeed,} agreed Sholan.

 _{“Jaffa, kree! Hara’e!”}_ ordered Tulka’an, the Goa’uld deputy commander whom he’d chosen to accompany him and oversee the Jaffa squad along with K’amot, a young Goa’uld officer not many years past implantation in his host. Both officers had worked with ‘General Kasol’ before. K’amot’s relative youth and malleability made him easy to keep in check, while Tulka’an’s apparently innate sense of discipline and order made him the perfect lackey for someone with a strong need to have his own orders and motives remain unquestioned.

The Jaffa at ground-level seized the woman, propelling her forward to stand directly before him. One shoved her roughly and she fell to her knees, though Sholan noted she did not bow her head. Instead, she darted a glance toward his left — at the other prisoner who still stood there, ignored in the face of this disruption — and then back to meet his own eyes briefly before she finally dropped her gaze.

“You have my kinsman, Lord General,” she murmured, just loud enough for his hearing. “Pray do with me as you will with him, and quickly.”

 _I think we have our answer as to whether Cadogan has operatives in the area._ Brice’s mental tone was grim. _The question is, how many?_

{Possibly just this one, although I doubt it,} Sholan replied. {In any case, it seems she knows our identity and our mission.}

He had no idea what to do with her, under the circumstances. This visit had not been intended for the collection of palace slaves or prospective hosts — not, of course, that he’d want to take someone for that purpose anyway. _Especially_ not a rebel operative.

Still, the role he played demanded he do just that, or at least give a show of doing so. This wasn’t the first time he’d been placed in the horrific position of determining the fate of Bel’s subjects. Whenever he could he’d managed to divert those he’d been forced to take, smuggling them quietly back to their families or when that wasn’t possible, to another of the Five Worlds or even to the Tok’bel stronghold at Caer Ynys as potential candidates for voluntary blending with Tok’bel symbiotes whose hosts were nearing the end of their days. Two that he knew of had gladly accepted such blendings.

 _And then there’ve been the times when we’ve had no way to get them safely free._ The sorrow coloring Brice’s thought was no greater than Sholan’s own. _However, even a swift death is preferable to being taken as host by a Goa’uld._

{This one will meet a better fate if I have any way to arrange it.} Waters-of-birth, she’d looked him straight in the eye and _asked_ for the same fate as the male prisoner! Release him, release her… somehow, she must know.

 

 

***

 

 

From his vantage point among the evergreens crowding the slope that rose behind the administration block of the mining complex, Brioc watched events unfold in the courtyard below. He and Pyr had counted twenty-three Jaffa in the compound. Five shared the stage with the general and his subordinates, wearing full naquadah-alloy armor and rams-head helmets. Sixteen — two less than the mine’s normal complement — were stationed throughout the grounds, keeping watch over the laborers. These were clad in the boiled-leather armor commonly used for resident duty on most of the Five Worlds; naquadah was scarce enough in Bel’s domain that his Jaffa mostly wore it on his throneworld of Bohan or on missions originating from that world. They’d also counted seventy-eight laborers assembled in the chilly air, along with what appeared to be half a dozen human overseers. There was no sign yet of any additional Jaffa.

After sending Pyr back to report to Neirin, Brioc had focused his attention on the dais. He was too far away to make out the general’s words, but could follow his body language and tone. Just a few moments into the general’s speech, he saw Coll brought forward by two Jaffa. Brioc absently registered that this accounted in full for the mine’s Jaffa staff, though his attention was focused on his best friend. Coll appeared unkempt but unharmed. Despite the winter chill, he wore neither coat nor cloak, only the rough woolen tunic and trews that comprised standard working attire for crews underground.

Movement to one side caught his eye as three figures hove into view. Two men clutched a woman, struggling, between them. As they hauled her in front of the general, Brioc got a glimpse of her face, albeit in profile, and the blonde braid that lay over one shoulder.

It was Ceinwen, he realized with a jolt. Sholan might yet be able to arrange Coll’s release, but what in the name of thunder was he going to do with a second captive?

The branches behind him rustled and he turned to check the trail, nodding a salute as Neirin appeared with Pyr close behind. The other Wolves materialized silently from the trees as Neirin nodded in the direction of the compound. “So twenty-three Jaffa, six overseers, and Sholan’s two Goa’uld; all of them armed. I know at least two of those overseers are our own people, and probably thirty or so of the labor force are either our folks or sympathizers. I’ve had odds I’ve liked better, but — ”

Brioc interrupted him, gesturing toward the dais. “We have another problem, though. Take a closer look.”

Neirin peered through the screen of firs, shifting snow-dusted branches slightly for a better view. He tensed, uttering a word Brioc had never heard before. Given the _filwriad_ ’s tone, it sounded like a particularly vehement oath. Turning back, he slammed a leather-gloved fist into the opposite palm. “How..?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, sir. The bigger question is what do we do about it?”

“Excuse me?” Pyr glanced from Brioc to Neirin. “What’s the new problem?”

Brioc knew this new development would be even harder for Pyr to deal with than for the others. He gently laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Your sister’s been captured.”

 

 

***

 

 

Tesni fought back a wave of apprehension as she watched the Jaffa push the blonde figure in the mottled hunting cloak to her knees in front of the dais. She’d bit her tongue to keep from gasping when she first saw Ceinwen and her captors. No matter how she looked at it, this put the mission in jeopardy. Sholan would be expected to do something with Ceinwen, even as he’d promised Cadogan he’d pardon Coll if he could. There was little chance he could simply free her without arousing suspicion.

Surely Neirin and his Wolves were nearby and watching by now? As unobtrusively as possible, she scanned the compound’s perimeter, taking mental note of the most likely places for her husband and his men to have hidden themselves. The mining camp occupied a miniature valley bounded on three sides by rocky hills. Its most prominent feature was a steep, nearly vertical rock face rising some sixty feet into the air at its highest point and running approximately three hundred feet from southwest to northeast, with the entrance to the mine itself situated near the center of its base. The ridge ended in a jagged outcropping at its southwestern extreme, where the main road passed beneath its shadow, and tailed downward slightly to merge with somewhat gentler terrain to the north. The workers’ dormitory was set against this far end of the compound, with scrub grass and trees covering the slope behind. The ground rose more steeply in a low ridge curving around toward the east and then south before angling slightly westward, its culmination another high point near the road — although not nearly as high as the face opposite and taking the form of a gentler slope clad in grass and fir trees with a blanket of winter snow. The facility’s administration building, including quarters for its resident Jaffa, stood at the foot of this slope directly across from the dais currently occupied by Sholan and his party, and the low, thatch-roofed sorting house.

From her position near the front of the crowd of laborers, she had a largely-unimpeded view of the compound’s forecourt, framed by the gap between the two arms of the ridge structure in whose grasp the camp nestled. The gap itself was roughly the width of Llanavon’s central square, perhaps a hundred feet or so, and served as the main entrance and egress for the complex. If Neirin and his Wolves had approached by way of the main road, they would likely have left it a short distance before reaching the gap and taken instead to the surrounding hills, trusting to the cover of the trees.

She detected motion near the place where the road passed the gap, sprouting a fork that entered the camp itself. For a moment she wondered whether Neirin’s team had opted to enter camp openly, then realized the figures appearing around the curve of the road were too large and oddly-shaped to be _Am Rhyddid_. As she watched, eight Jaffa clad in the familiar ram’s-headed armor of Bel’s troops entered the camp. They approached the dais from behind, where Sholan’s party stood with their backs to the newcomers, their attention focused instead upon Ceinwen and the general. Two of the camp’s complement of Jaffa intercepted them halfway, and the leader of the eight retracted his helmet panels to reveal his bare head. They conferred for a moment before one of the Jaffa who’d gone to meet them turned and made his way toward the dais.

 

 

***

 

 

Sholan gazed down at the female captive who knelt on the ground before the dais.

{ _“Ha’nok chel!”_ } he ordered aloud. “Bring her.” The two Jaffa flanking the woman grasped her arms, hauling her upright. He gestured, and they began to lead her toward the steps.

Saldah, the Jaffa captain in charge of mining operations, materialized at his elbow and bowed. “My lord, your other servants have arrived to carry away the ore shipment. I’ve had a pair of carts made ready. Shall I order them loaded now?”

 _‘Other’ servants?_ Confusion colored Brice’s mental tone.

{I have no idea,} Sholan responded. Aloud, he said, {“Bring their leader to me first.”}

Saldah bowed again. “Yes, my lord.” He turned away, leaving Sholan to wonder what was going on.

The female prisoner now stood beside her male counterpart, watching him. Although both he and Saldah had spoken in Go’auld, Sholan had the impression she’d understood the exchange. He glanced at the male captive and thought he saw understanding in his eyes as well. If both of them spoke or at least understood more than a few rudimentary words of the language, that most likely meant they were in fact operatives in Cadogan’s local band of rebels.

Saldah returned with another Jaffa in tow. The newcomer’s helmet panels were retracted, revealing sharp features and close-cropped blond hair. Sholan didn’t recognize him, not that he necessarily had expected to. However, he was unsure as to why a second party would’ve been dispatched to collect naquadah tribute when his group had already been sent to speak to the locals and could easily have carried out both tasks.

{“Who are you?”} he demanded.

The Jaffa bowed his head, then straightened. “My lord, I am Manac of the Wide Plain,” he said, naming as his origin a mixed farming and industrial area just outside Arandesed, Bel’s capital. “I and my squad are to carry a shipment of naquadah ore to the refining facilities there.”

{“By whose command were you sent here?”}

The Jaffa captain hesitated a fraction of a second before answering. “By _Kindrah_ Lan’ac, my lord, acting on on the order of Lord Metan.”

 _That_ made even less sense. Unless Metan had made additional arrangements with Bel in their absence, there was no reason another team should’ve been dispatched to obtain naquadah. Could Metan be attempting to double-cross him somehow, to discredit him in Bel’s favor? An uneasy thought, that, although certainly not out-of-character for an ambitious Goa’uld… but Metan was minister of natural resources, and already outranked Kasol in terms of Goa’uld hierarchies.

He fixed the Jaffa with a haughty stare, only half-confident of its appearance. {“And what, _exactly_ , were your instructions? How much ore are you to receive?”}

The Jaffa blinked. “Two carts of mid-grade ore, my lord, or if that amount is not available, as much and as close to that quality as you have in inventory.”

 _As_ you _have in inventory?_ echoed Brice in mindspeech.

Suddenly the pieces fell into place. The Jaffa captain seemed to think he — Kasol — was in charge of the mining operation! Many years ago Bel had indeed put Goa’uld in charge of most of the larger mines in his realm, but that practice had fallen by the wayside in the past two centuries. Clearly this Jaffa was working with seriously outdated information, which could only mean he and his comrades were agents of Moccas. Their presence on this world, witnessed by himself and his party, would lend credence to the cover story that Moccas was responsible for _all_ the missing naquadah as well as other assorted mischief. Of course, Sholan couldn’t allow any of them to be taken alive so they could be returned to Bohan and questioned, but their deaths would have to appear to be the result of a failed attempt at capture.

Sholan shouted, {“Seize him!”} He raised the personal shield of his _kara'kesh_ even as he drew the _zat’nik’tel_ from his belt, always preferring the clean and more dignified death of the zat over the ribbon device's torturous beam.

The fair-haired Jaffa dodged, twisting away as two of his counterparts in Sholan’s own party attempted to grab him. Bringing his staff to bear, he opened fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: First let me say that the conclusion of our heroes' mission to the mine is currently in the hands of my trusty beta/editor, and will be posted as soon as it comes back to me, which means you can expect to see it within the next 24 to 48 hours. Secondly, allow me to once again offer my apologies for the unconscionably long delay between updates. Suffice it to say that Real Life and I had a marked difference of opinion for a while, and while we were on speaking terms we were most definitely not in agreement as to our priorities. The good news is that I seem to have negotiated a truce which should allow me to update more regularly — which is fortunate, because I have some surprises in store for everyone, not least of all Frank himself.


	57. Out Of Chaos

_If you are going through hell, keep going._ — Winston Churchill 

  


For the second time today, Cromwell wished mightily for binoculars. Peering through the gap in the fir branches, he and Brioc monitored events in the camp below the hillside. The second Jaffa party had entered the camp moments ago, and been quickly intercepted by two leather-armored guards. Now one of those guards had brought the leader of the second party to confer with Sholan, and things looked tense. Meanwhile, four Jaffa in leather moved a pair of horse-drawn carts across the forecourt, angling toward the storage building where Cromwell knew naquadah ore was kept. 

“On your toes, gentlemen,” he cautioned his team. “We don’t know which way this thing’s going to break.” 

Sholan suddenly raised his weapon as a shimmering field enveloped him. The Jaffa brought his staff to bear, firing at the group on the dais. Cromwell saw Ceinwen leap over the edge with Coll in tow. They disappeared into the crowd as it scattered. The Jaffa who’d shot first fell under a hail of energy bolts and disappeared from view as chaos erupted. His fellows, cut off from easy exit by the carts, opened fire on the guards leading the horses. The animals squealed in fear and one bolted, hauling the cart along with it while its handler dodged out of the way and fired at the other party. He was joined by two of the mine’s human overseers who came running from the direction of the storehouse, brandishing zats. 

_That tears it._ Cromwell turned from the scene and addressed his men. “All right, time to move. We’ve got Jaffa fighting Jaffa, so my guess is this new bunch belongs to Moccas. The workers are scattering, and none of our people in that compound right now are armed with Goa’uld tech. We’ve got three objectives: protect our people, give Sholan any help he needs, and get all of our folks out of there before anybody starts asking too many questions. Right now both Jaffa and human staff are shooting, so we can probably count on the confusion for cover if we don’t take too long.” 

As he spoke, he’d started downslope, followed by his men and keeping to the shadows cast by the trees and the hillside itself. He issued further orders as he went, dividing the Wolves into twos and threes, with the intention to scatter them throughout the chaos once they reached the courtyard. “Whatever you do, _don’t_ let yourselves get on the wrong side of Sholan’s people or the mine staff,” he cautioned. “Brioc, you’re with me. The rest of you, fan out. Rendezvous at the cave, with everyone you can grab.” That meant traveling a little over a klick cross-country, but it was better than having everyone stick too close to the action while they waited for stragglers. 

By now they’d reached level ground just behind the admin block. “See you all on the outside. Go.” 

  


*** 

  


Ignored after their captive had been taken in hand by the Jaffa, Iolo and his companion Llyr had remained standing near one side of the dais. They watched as the Emissary judged the _anghrediniwr_. It didn’t matter what treaty existed between her clan and Talorc, Iolo mused; at least not to Llyr. Clan Talorc remained true to the Shining One and carried out his worship as best they could in this benighted age. Since his triumphant return in Iolo’s several-times-great grandsire’s day, Bel appeared less frequently to his faithful than the ancient legends claimed he was wont to do before the Wars of the Gods. Perhaps this was why most other folk now regarded Bel not as a god but as a mortal being, albeit something vastly more than human. They despised him, giving their service and their gifts reluctantly, begrudging the very Lord who had delivered their ancestors to this fertile world the fruit of their labors upon it. 

Iolo knew this to be a great sin. The priests reminded his people at every turn that they and a small handful of other clans scattered over the face of this world and her sisters were all that kept the flame of faith alive and that one day Lord Bel would see fit to judge the Unbelievers in fury and in purifying fire. But it was not the place of Clan Talorc and the other faithful to take a god’s vengeance into their own hands. This had been the firm instruction of Divine Emissaries since before Iolo’s birth, including the one who now occupied the dais, surveying the woman who knelt before him. Talorci might fight for honor in the name of Bel when war bands clashed, for war had always been the holiest sport among Pridani and Albannu alike since the days when their forefathers walked the _byd cyntaf_ — the First World — and Bel himself would reward those whose glory in battle was freely offered Him. Outside the bounds of the blessed game, however, it was not given to mortal men and women to claim the agency of divine will, not even the faithful of Talorc. 

This Iolo believed. Llyr, however, was another story. He was a fanatic, even by the standards of the priesthood. Not that Iolo had qualms about seeing an infidel brought to face an Emissary. It had been his suggestion to seize the woman, although he was sure that if he’d said nothing, Llyr would have suggested it himself with his next breath. Still, there was something unsettling about the gleeful glitter Iolo saw in the old priest’s eyes as he’d watched her forced to her knees in the frozen mud. Clan Branoc was one of the most respected clans in the neighboring district, and they or their allies might well seek redress should the sport of war find their band pitted against one of Talorc’s own. Old Llyr loved to play with danger, but Talorc sent its surplus youth to court the blessings of warfare, while the priests fed temple fires and waited for news. 

The Emissary had ordered the girl brought up onto the dais, and as she was led to stand beside another prisoner, a leather-clad Jaffa captain approached the Emissary. Iolo had not caught whatever words they exchanged, but as the Jaffa hurried off a moment later, Iolo’s gaze had followed him and he’d noted a knot of fully-armored and helmeted Jaffa milling about the compound’s forecourt, inside the main gate. When the captain returned he’d brought one of their number, helmet retracted to reveal blond hair so pale as to be almost white. 

Something in this new Jaffa’s demeanor set Iolo’s teeth on edge, though he couldn’t have begun to explain why. A moment later the Jaffa opened fire with his ma’tok, and reflex made Iolo duck. As the attacker fell, shot by the Emissary, the impact dislodged the zat’nik’tel at his belt. It bounced off the ground before coming to rest a few feet way. 

Time and action blurred as Iolo tried to process what he’d just seen. Jaffa firing on the gods or their messengers was something out of legend or history, not an event he’d ever expected to witness first-hand. Beside him, Llyr gave a wordless cry and leapt forward, ducking past running bodies — Jaffa and human — to grasp the fallen weapon and tuck it into his belt. “Come, boy! They whose leader attacked the messenger of Bel must die!” He made as if to charge the forecourt, but wheeled as another firebolt narrowly missed him, leaving an acrid tang in the air. 

Iolo saw their erstwhile captive and her fellow prisoner leap from the dais and disappear into the panicked crowd as it dispersed. Llyr must have seen them as well, for he changed course yet again. “This way!” he shouted, and plunged into the scattering throng. Iolo hesitated, then reluctantly followed. He was unsure what connection Llyr had made between the attack they’d just witnessed and the prisoners, but unwilling to let the old man stray too far out of sight. 

  


*** 

  


{“General!”} 

Sholan registered K’amot’s shout but was far too busy to respond. As the foreign Jaffa opened fire, Sholan had zatted his exposed head twice, killing him. Saldah, in charge of the mine’s complement of Jaffa, was clearly taken by surprise but recovered almost immediately and begun shouting orders to his own forces. 

An instant later, staff and zat bolts from the direction of the main gate had announced the entry of the fallen one’s squad into the fray. Due to the location of the dais, Sholan and his two deputies quickly found themselves in the general crossfire as the intruders seemed to concentrate their efforts upon his party. His own Jaffa guard had quickly closed ranks, but not before both of his Goa’uld deputies had returned fire. The addition of a panicked crowd of humans screaming and jostling to escape further complicated matters. Sholan thundered commands with full-voiced authority of a System Lord’s emissary and general, but these went largely ignored by the human laborers — not that he was surprised, given what he knew of the Pridani and the Albannu. 

{General!”} K’amot called again. {“Tulka’an’s been hit.”} 

Sholan suppressed the urge to curse out loud. Not only was he the only member of the party to possess a _kara’kesh_ with a personal shield function, but he also carried the party’s only _tael’kesh_ , the healing device used by Tok’ra and Goa’uld alike. His most pressing task just at present was to be seen attempting to maintain order, however, not to mention that as a Tok’ra he had no great interest in saving the life of any Goa’uld. 

Still, he turned to see to his deputy, stepping over one of the party’s five Jaffa, who had fallen to the dais with a smoking rent in his breastplate. Tulka’an lay motionless, the left side of his head a blistered and charred mass of flesh. The damage continued down his neck where it disappeared beneath his armor. K’amot knelt over him, and Sholan reluctantly extended his shield to encompass all three temporarily. A zat blast sneaked past their quartet of Jaffa to sizzle against the shield, sending ripples across his field of vision as it dissipated. The shield wavered a moment in the wake of the discharge. _That isn’t going to hold for long,_ observed Brice. 

Realizing his host was most likely right, Sholan retracted the shield’s boundaries until they conformed once more to the limits of his own person. He reached for the healing device at his belt, but another blast lit up his shield again, and he turned to extricate himself from the little knot of Jaffa surrounding his deputies. Right now he needed to know what was going on more than he needed to render aid. Tulka’an, assuming he was still alive, would have to heal his host body by himself or wait until later when Sholan had time to tend him, or possibly for transport back to Bohan and the ministrations of a sarcophagus. While he might regret the loss of an easily-managed lackey, beyond that he would not grieve the death of a Goa’uld. 

  


*** 

  


As the first Jaffa fell to the ground, the crowd began to scatter. Tesni saw Ceinwen leap off the dais, dragging Coll with her, then lost sight of both in the press of bodies — armored and otherwise — near its base. She looked left and right, trying to locate the other Llanavoni rebels who had come along on the current work rotation. Aeddon stood perhaps a dozen feet away, mouth open in shock. As she watched, he quickly closed it and looked about. Catching sight of Tesni, he arrowed in her direction. Cornan and Enfys appeared at her elbow mere seconds later. “What’s going on?” asked Cornan. 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Tesni retorted, steering all three toward the sorting-house as a trio of leather-armored Jaffa pelted past them in the direction of the dais. All around them the facility’s other Jaffa were bellowing orders and trying to herd the workers toward the mine entrance, with little success amid the chaos. She saw the same tattooed man who’d operated the lift yesterday struck by a random energy bolt and fall writhing to the ground, his eyes wide with shock. 

A hasty sprint brought Tesni and her comrades to the relative shelter of the sorting-house. Half a dozen others had already taken refuge there. “What’s happening? Who are these other Jaffa?” asked a young man who looked as though he might be all of eighteen and on his first work rotation. Dusty brown hair fell across his forehead, half-obscuring one eye, and he brushed it aside only for it to fall back again. 

“Hush, Cynwric, and keep away from the door,” urged an older man. 

“Aye, _tad_.” The youth scuttled backward to huddle between his father and another man who might be an uncle, if resemblance were any indication. 

Tesni and her companions formed a knot in one corner of the building, away from its other occupants. Crouching on the floor next to one of the sorting tables, they conferred in whispers. 

“I want to know what’s happening, too,” Aeddon said. “Obviously the Emissary doesn’t care much for these new Jaffa. Might one group or the other be the same ones that showed up on Emhain last fall?” Knowledge of that encounter had filtered through the rebel ranks in Llanavon afterward. 

“Well, it isn’t the Emissary’s group, I can tell you that much,” Tesni whispered back. “According to Ceinwen, they visited Llanavon yesterday. The Emissary is known as General Kasol, but my uncle says he’s really a Tok’bel agent who’s been deep undercover for years. I imagine the other Goa’uld with him are genuine, though.” 

“Which still doesn’t tell us who these other Jaffa are,” put in Enfys. 

“I know who they are,” said a masculine voice as two more bodies slipped into the circle. Ceinwen looked disheveled but otherwise unharmed, while Coll wore an oddly satisfied expression. “That blond Jaffa was at Doireglas. Couple of them were fighting with their helmets open that day; I’ve no idea why. Anyway, I remember him because he took a shot at Cadogan and didn’t miss, then disappeared in the thick of things. Son of a dog finally got what he deserved just now.” 

“So they don’t belong to Bel, then?” Enfys wanted to know. 

Coll nodded. “That’s my guess. We made a show of fighting on Bel’s side at the time, as cover, yet this one shot the _cadlywydd_. He must’ve belonged to Moccas.” 

“Enough speculation,” said Tesni. “Whatever’s happening, once it’s over the Emissary’s going to have to deal with you two. Coll, I know my uncle had asked him to find a way to pardon and free you, and he agreed. But it’s anyone’s guess how a fight like this could change what he feels he can do without arousing suspicion. And certainly there’s little he could’ve done to let Ceinwen go, so we’d best get you both out of here. I don’t fancy sticking around myself, either.” 

Aeddon goggled at her. “What do we do, shoot our way out? And with what?” 

Ceinwen patted the leather satchel she carried slung on a strap across her torso. “I was going to hide my tech if anyone got too close, but I thought I could get away before those hunters grabbed me. Turns out they were in such a hurry to present me to the general that they didn’t bother to do a thorough search beyond taking my bow, quiver and dagger. I’ve still got a zat.” 

Cornan snorted. “Right, and we won’t look at all suspicious.” 

Ceinwen shook her head. “It’s a free-for-all out there. Some of the staff have zats too, especially the Talorci. I saw one hit on the way here, and another grabbed his weapon and ran off firing it. If we can make ourselves look as though we’re trying to defend this place from Moccas’ Jaffa, we can probably get to the perimeter and disappear into the hills.” 

“All right, you have a zat. What do the rest of us have?” 

With a pointed glance at Cornan, Tesni reached up and plucked a wad of fabric from the table above. It was one of the close-woven sacks used for collecting the smallest chunks of naquadah-rich ore so they wouldn’t go astray during transport. “We use these.” She began to twist and knot the empty sack as she spoke, leaving a shallow cup between the two largest knots. “We’ve all hunted with slings, or used them in target games. Ore chunks are dense enough to do some damage when they strike, maybe even through armor if they hit between the plates. Besides, we’re mostly just trying to look like we’re defending the mine, and we only have to keep it up long enough to get out of here. I expect we’ll have a pack of Wolves helping before long.” 

Ceinwen nodded assurance. “Without a doubt.” Even if the _cadlywydd_ hadn’t gotten a warning to them, she knew the moment any of Neirin’s men spotted the second party of Jaffa he’d have laid plans to intervene if necessary. 

“One more thing,” said Tesni. “There are seven others here from Llanavon, and I don’t want to leave them behind. Even if those eight Jaffa aren’t the vanguard of a larger force, there’s no telling what conditions will be like here when all is said and done. We may not be able to save everyone, but if we can get our own out of harm’s way, we will.” 

  


*** 

  


Cromwell and Brioc crouched low as they made their way around the side of the administration building. At the corner, they peered out at the unfolding situation. The new Jaffa, the ones wearing heavy armor, had dispersed the moment their leader had been hit, but finding their main egress blocked by carts, horses and angry guards, they hadn’t run far. Instead, apparently realizing just how badly outgunned they were by the combination of Sholan’s group and the mine’s complement of Jaffa, they had scattered and sought the best cover they could find, with varying degrees of success. Two hid behind carts, while others simply dove to the ground and fired at anything that moved. 

The first shots had been like a flame to dry grass. The crowd of assembled workers had quickly turned into a stampede of terrified people trying desperately to reach the safety of the nearby buildings, and at the same time the mine’s lightly-armored contingent of Jaffa headed towards Sholan and the invading Jaffa, struggling through a churning tide of panicked humans. 

Moving as quickly as he dared and keeping his head down, Cromwell dashed across the gap between the admin block and the low wall separating it from the rest of the compound. Brioc followed, both of them fetching up against the wall’s base. The colonel peered over its top, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of a familiar face within the chaotic sea of humanity seeking shelter, and seeking one face in particular. Staff blasts flew in every direction across the complex and the horses that pulled the naquadah carts, big powerful animals that reminded him of Clydesdales he’d seen back on Earth, were spooked. As he watched, one reared in its traces, dancing sideways and tipping the cart dangerously before coming back down again with a thud of heavy iron-shod hooves and a crash of wheels. 

He looked again, knowing he had to be analytical and dispassionate if he were to get his team, Tesni and himself out of this mess intact, now that the variables had shifted. The new Jaffa he supposed were most likely soldiers of Moccas seemed to be putting up a valiant defense in lieu of flight, and a quick scan of the entire compound suggested why: They were greatly outnumbered, and unless they could whittle down their opposition and force the remainder into cover or at least make them keep their heads down, any attempt to fall back would end with them all being slaughtered. Unfortunately, this also meant they weren’t being too discriminating about who they shot, as long as it wasn’t one of their own number. 

For the dozenth time he hefted the zat, passing it from hand to hand before clasping its serpentine body firmly in his right. “Did you see where Coll and Ceinwen went?” 

“No, _filwriad_ , only that they disappeared into the crowd,” Brioc replied. 

“They’ve probably found shelter by now. Keep your weapon handy, but conceal it as much as you can. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, and we don’t know how many of those workers are with us.” 

Cautiously, he and Brioc moved out from behind the wall. The crowd had thinned considerably, but many people remained in the courtyard, huddled in clumps or sheltering wherever some structure or object provided cover. A staccato of energy bursts punctuated every few steps they took as the Jaffa incursion force traded fire with the mine’s defenders. _A foolhardy effort if ever there was one,_ thought Cromwell. _Unfortunately, I’m the guy who has to worry about collateral damage._

As they worked their way across the compound at an angle designed to keep as much distance between themselves and the thick of the confrontation, he kept a sharp eye out for the familiar faces from Llanavon, or any other members of the _Am Rhyddid_. The rest of his men would be doing likewise, under orders to gather their comrades and safeguard them. The Wolves had the advantage here, knowing the General’s true allegiance and having been forewarned of the approach of intruders. It did not make for absence of fear, but Cromwell felt the knowledge gave him some control over the situation. _Some_ was not the same as _enough_ , however. He had no idea where Ceinwen and Coll had disappeared to. And where was Tesni? 

  


*** 

  


Sholan scowled as he tried to pick off one of the foreign Jaffa. All seven had scattered and taken cover upon seeing their leader killed. There was no telling what they hoped to accomplish, outnumbered as they were, but clearly they were unwilling to return to their master with empty hands. He supposed their training held it better to die fighting than to fail in their assigned task. They seemed to be focusing most of their fire on his own party, rather than on the more lightly-armored Jaffa who oversaw the mine. They weren’t shooting directly at him, of course, but at his four remaining guards who were in turn doing what they could to protect K’amot and the injured Tulka’an. 

He swore as he realized he’d lost track of at least some of the intruders. Quickly, he counted those whose positions he was still sure of either due to visual contact or based on the source of fire toward his own position, and came up with four. That meant three were somewhere loose in the compound. A visual scan of the courtyard failed to indicate their whereabouts, and gave him cause for concern. If none of Moccas’ Jaffa — he felt certain now of their origin — were willing to return alive to their god, he would oblige them. Live prisoners could be questioned, which ran the risk of jeopardizing the careful web of disinformation he and Jiru had spun over recent years to blame the results of rebel activity on Moccas. Execution was an option, should the invaders be captured by the mine’s own guard and brought to him, but Sholan preferred to avoid that particularly noisome task if he could. Better that all seven emulate their leader by conveniently perishing in battle. 

Two human figures moved across the courtyard, their motions appearing deliberately calculated in contrast to the mayhem that dominated the scene. As he watched, they paused to crouch beside an overturned handcart while one of the mine’s leather-clad Jaffa traded fire with an unseen opponent — one of the missing trio, surely — who must be located somewhere near the sorting facility, to judge by the trajectory of the energy bolts. The other humans in the area scattered, amid shouts and screams. The pair beside the cart remained still, and after the spate of firing ceased, the more broadly-built of the two cautiously raised his head, seeming to engage in a brief reconnaissance of their surroundings before touching his companion on the shoulder and gesturing with an air of command. Together, they left their temporary shelter and continued off at a tangent to their original route. 

  


*** 

  


The shooting had stopped, or at least that portion closest to the sorting house had ceased. Tesni could still hear weapons fire from farther away, the bursts forming a staccato background to the worried muttering of the miners who’d taken shelter in the building. Their number had grown over the past few minutes as others arrived, including four more of the group from Llanavon. That left only seven unaccounted for. 

Clutching her improvised sling, Tesni patted the sack she’d hung from her belt and filled with chunks of ore and detritus to use as ammunition should it become necessary to fight. She risked a glance outside the building, peering around the doorframe to scan the immediate area. It appeared they were in the clear for the moment. “Come on,” she urged her companions. “Let’s move while we can.” 

She tucked a fist-sized rock into the sling as she stepped outside. The courtyard had not emptied entirely of miners; small knots of three or four huddled in spots. Jaffa in leather armor patrolled the open space, appearing to ignore them in the search for intruders. Handcarts and other equipment were strewn throughout, forming a haphazard obstacle course. 

The Llanavoni, joined by several of the other miners who’d hidden in the sorting-house, made their way toward the far side of the compound in twos and threes, moving along the periphery where buildings provided at least potential shelter. Tesni kept a sharp eye out for trouble. As they reached the stable she heard the whickering of horses surely made nervous by the sounds of fighting. The wide door was open, and she paused at its edge, signaling those behind her to halt as well. The sounds from within grew louder, and she peeked around the edge of the doorframe. A lone Jaffa in metallic armor stood in one of the box stalls, struggling to hold a large bay cart-horse by the halter. He wore his helmet retracted, likely in an attempt to calm the animal. The horse was having none of it, however, rearing and plunging as the boards shook. Its neighbors, nearly a dozen beasts of similar size, whinnied and stamped. 

Tesni felt pressure at her shoulder. A glance back showed Cynwric behind her. The young man, along with his father and uncle, had elected to join them in their bid for escape. Exchanging sign and countersign had shown both older men to be members of the _Am Rhyddid_ cell in Tarren Môr, a coastal village some twenty miles distant. 

Before she could caution Cynwric to stay back, a figure appeared in silhouette at the far door of the stable. Stepping inside, it resolved into a Jaffa, clad in the leather armor of the mine’s guard. He raised his ma’tok, aiming at the Jaffa still struggling with the horse. From his firing angle, the bolt would likely take out both animal and intruder. Tesni tensed as she heard the weapon activate preparatory to firing. The armored Jaffa heard it too, and spun around to face the guard. 

“No!” cried Cynwric from behind her. The guard’s reaction to the sound destroyed his aim and the bolt arrowed upward toward the ceiling, missing his quarry by several feet. The horse reared and broke free. It bolted for the far door, knocking the guard aside in its haste to be anywhere else, and disappeared. The Jaffa who’d been holding onto its halter had been forced against the side of the box to avoid being struck by hooves the size of dinner plates. He levered himself away from the planks, glancing upward as he did so. His eyes widened and he whirled, deploying his helmet panels with a metallic hiss. Striding swiftly to where the guard lay unmoving, he stepped over the leather-clad form and exited the stable. 

The scent of smoke reached Tesni’s nostrils at the same time crackling registered from above, making her look upward. That wild staff blast must have set the hayloft alight! Even as the thought occurred, she saw flames licking at the building’s roof. “Everybody, move out,” Tesni called to her group of rebels and laborers. “The stable’s on fire! That may bring more guards, but the confusion should cover our escape.” 

Cynwric pressed past her, into the structure. “Get out here!” she cried after him. 

“We have to save the horses!” he shouted back through the wisps of smoke that were already curling through the air from the conflagration above as hot, expanding air drove the fire’s exhaust down as well as upward. 

He wasn’t wrong, she knew. No rational person would abandon animals to a burning building if it could be helped. “Go!” she shouted at the others before turning back to the door. Filling her lungs with the clear air of outdoors, she plunged in after him. The stable’s interior was filled with the screams of terrified horses, and fast becoming grey with smoke. Cynwric was working his way along one row of box stalls, unlatching doors as he went and checking to be sure the creatures within weren’t tied by their halters. “Hah!” he shouted at a dappled grey who seemed frozen in place by fear. “Go, yer thick-headed clod!” A smack on the haunch sent the horse on its way, and a fit of coughing racked the youth as he moved on to the next stall. 

Tesni set to work on the opposite row, thankful the stable was only half-occupied. The horses she liberated needed no such encouragement as Cynwric had doled out to their comrade. Each thundered for the door and clear air just as soon as she’d opened its enclosure. 

At the far end of the row, she spared a glance for the Jaffa guard who lay half-trampled in the straw. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle, his limbs carelessly askew like a discarded rag doll’s. Clearly he would put up no alarm or pursuit. The tip of his ma’tok had been partially flattened, likely by multiple hooves, and wasn’t likely to fire in that condition. She knelt to relieve him of the zat’nik’tel slung in a loop on his belt. As she stood, Cynwric approached with a gray sack over his shoulder. He peered about the smoke-filled gloom, probably checking to be sure they hadn’t missed any horses. She’d already checked, and knew they had not. It was too bad about the wagons and carts, but they could be replaced at a cost less dear than lives. “Come on,” she rasped, stifling the urge to cough though her lungs heaved, and grabbed him by a handful of woolen sleeve. “They’re gone, and it’s time we were, too.” 

Outside, she blinked eyes streaming from sunlight and smoke. “Where did you find that?” she asked, pointing to the sack. 

“Tripped over it just outside one of the stalls, and thought it might be important,” Cynwric answered. He set it down and opened it, revealing naquadah ore. “Well, that explains why it’s so heavy for its size.” 

“We’ll take it with us.” 

Aeddon, Enfys and Cornan appeared then, holding two older men by the arms. Still blinking away tears, Tesni recognized Cynwric’s father and uncle. “We didn’t think you needed anyone to keep track of inside,” said Aeddon, “so we kept them with us and came around here. Ceinwen’s taken everyone else onward, and we’re to rendezvous on the far side of the dormitory.” 

“You can let go now,” observed the thicker of the two men — Dylan, Cynwric’s father — acerbically. “We’re not about to run in after him now that he’s come out.” As his arms were released, he nodded toward Tesni. “Many thanks to you for seeing to his safety, _chwaer_.” 

Rounding on his son, he continued, “And as for _you_ , are you trying to put me in an early grave?” 

“No, _Tad_. But the horses — ” 

Tesni fell in on Cynwric’s right as Dylan clapped a meaty hand on his son’s shoulder, steering him after Aeddon, who’d taken the lead. “Aye, and I suppose I can’t blame you for that, given all that Mael and I taught you,” agreed Dylan. “For that matter, any man would’ve done the same, like as not, and you’ve been of age these three months now. So I’ll say no more… _this_ time.” 

“I’ll say only one thing,” offered his brother as the group continued putting distance between themselves and the burning stable. “I’d like to know where Ysbryd’s gone off to after knocking down that Jaffa. I don’t care about the cart as much, but I’m not keen to lose him.” 

“Ysbryd?” Tesni raised an eyebrow, coughing. “That big bay’s named for something as insubstantial as a phantom?” 

Cynwric shot her a sheepish grin, his teeth white in the soot-besmirched face. “I named him. When he was born, he was small for the breed. And sneaky — as a foal he’d creep up behind you so quiet you wouldn’t even know he was there, and then shove his nose into your back to get your attention. I trained him from a colt — well, me and my _tad_ and Uncle Mael here.” 

They rounded the side of the building and broke into a jog. Worried-looking staff, both human and Jaffa, passed them enroute toward the fire, shouting in alarm, but only one even bothered to look their way: Eiluned. “The horses are out!” Tesni called to her as they passed. The staff would have to fight the fire lest it spread, but she knew the Jaffa would make the humans do the most dangerous work and there was no need for anyone to risk their skin going inside the building. 

“Thank you!” The overseer didn’t even break stride. 

“One of us?” asked Mael. 

“Keep it under your cap,” Tesni cautioned him. Only a handful of people were aware of Eiluned’s true loyalties. It was safer that way. 

Wind-borne smoke began to fill the compound, cutting visibility to just a few feet and slowing their progress. The musical _poing!_ of a zat discharging at close range set Tesni’s heart to thudding as a shape emerged from the haze, resolving itself into an armored Jaffa. The bolt missed whatever its intended target had been, instead splashing against the ground in a puddle of liquid light. Glowing red eyes in the ram’s-head helm appeared to focus on Tesni herself, or someone in close proximity. “You will give us what is ours,” said the Jaffa as more shapes appeared. 

  


*** 

  


Cromwell threaded his way through the confusion of bodies in the compound. Some were mobile; others were not. Brioc kept pace beside him. Somewhere in this chaos, Tesni and the other Llanavoni must be engineering their own escape, but without weapons save Ceinwen’s zat — if she still had it — they were sure to need backup. Every misgiving he’d entertained since Cadogan first suggested sending his wife into this place crowded the colonel’s thoughts at once. 

Brioc gripped his arm. “Look!” he said, gesturing. The flow of traffic through the compound had changed; mine staff and the leather-clad Jaffa were altering direction to converge on a spot near the facility’s rear. A glance told him why. Thick smoke rose upward, and Cromwell caught a lick of flame. 

“Has to be the stable,” he said. Had Moccas’ Jaffa deliberately set it alight to serve as a distraction? 

A shifting wind began to carry smoke across the compound, threatening to obscure his vision. He managed to make out a number of figures moving against the flow, _away_ from the fire, and traveling in a group. Cromwell recognized Ceinwen at point with Coll behind her, helping to shepherd half a dozen or so mine laborers. Brioc’s expression confirmed that he’d seen them as well, and together they moved to intercept. 

Ceinwen looked relieved to see them when they reached her. “I wondered when you and your Wolves might show up, Neirin. Did Cadogan — ” 

“Yes. We’re spread out and looking to get everyone away to rendezvous at the cave. Have you seen Tesni?” 

In answer Ceinwen nodded toward the dormitory building just ahead, half-hidden by the smoky haze. “She’ll meet us there with another group. Come on.” 

She pressed forward, and Cromwell fell into step beside her. He took note of the zat in her hand. “You’re armed. Is anyone else?” 

“Slings. No tech.” 

_Damn._ “Where did you last see Tesni and her people?” he asked as they veered to give a wide berth to the armored corpse of a Jaffa missing half of his ram’s-headed helm — and of the head within. 

“The stable. She and a young man went in to turn out the horses when it caught.” 

The colonel scowled. “And you _left_ her there?” 

“She ordered me to get these others away. I left Aeddon, Cornan and Enfys with her, plus two other men and the youth.” 

He didn’t like it, not one bit. Something must’ve shown on his face, for Ceinwen went on, “You may argue with her all you like, Neirin, but I haven’t the rank.” 

He glanced back toward Brioc, a few paces behind them with Coll at his side. “You stay with them, and I’ll meet you at the dormitory.” Before anyone could protest, he added, “Don’t worry. That’s my job.” 

Cromwell set out back along their line of travel, keeping a sharp eye out despite the drifting smoke that obscured their surroundings from moment to moment. Before he’d gone more than forty paces, he heard a zat burst at close range. At almost the same instant the wind shifted yet again, clearing a patch of air around him to reveal a Jaffa in full armor training a zat at a small knot of humans, Tesni among them. She was armed, but two friendlies blocked her line of fire. Her eyes met Cromwell’s just as he raised his own zat to take aim, and he saw her mouth open, though no sound issued. Instead, he heard the sound of a ma’tok being primed. 

A second Jaffa appeared in the corner of his vision, the staff weapon leveled directly at Cromwell. _“Obi-tan,”_ he ordered. “Halt.” 

  


*** 

  


A gust of wind blew smoke directly into her face, and Ceinwen rubbed at her streaming eyes. As her vision cleared, a figure emerged from the smoky air, stepping into their path and brandishing a zat’nik’tel. She recognized the elder of her two erstwhile captors. Where had he found the weapon? 

“Halt!” he ordered, as his young companion appeared just beyond him, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “By what power have ye brought an enemy to confront the Emissary of Bel? I’d thought ye merely an unbeliever, but now I see ye prove a worse infidel, in league with false servants!” 

“These traitorous Jaffa,” she said coldly, “are not my allies.” 

His face twisted in a sneer. “Be that as it may. Your god has not finished judging you. Come now, and answer to his Emissary.” 

All patience evaporated, and Ceinwen squeezed the triggering mechanism on her own weapon. “Judge _that,_ you old fool,” she said as the priest fell backward. She stepped closer and shot him again, then eyed the younger man. “Go,” she said quietly. “Or you’re next.” 

The young man swallowed, his gaze darting from Ceinwen to the dead priest and back again. He wavered for an instant, then turned and fled. 

  


*** 

  


Cromwell’s blood froze as the Jaffa with the zat fired again. An unfamiliar-looking man next to Tesni fell, stunned by the blast, as his companions leapt into motion. Reflexively, the colonel triggered his own zat, dropping to the ground and rolling away even as he heard the ma’tok discharge and a wave of heat crisped the air above him. He came up into firing position just in time to see the nearer Jaffa fall heavily, enveloped in rapidly-dissipating blue energy, ma’tok clattering to the ground. _But I shot at the_ other _one!_

A glance back at his line of fire showed Tesni just lowering her own zat. Somehow, she’d managed to get off a shot at the one with the ma’tok just as Cromwell stunned the one she couldn’t. Savagely, he finished the nearer one with a second shot, then paused to scoop up his staff before joining his wife as she dispatched the other Jaffa. “Let’s get out of here,” he said without preamble as he passed the ma’tok to Aeddon. 

Another unfamiliar man and a youth who couldn’t have been more than eighteen were already lifting the downed man. “He’ll be all right; he’s just stunned. Have you got him? Can you carry him?” 

“Yes, sir,” said the elder of the two as they hoisted their comrade. Cromwell caught an impression of family resemblance before he turned back to his wife. 

“All right, let’s move out.” 


	58. Pacing The Cage

**1900 hours, August 12**

 

Hammond sighed inwardly as the technician closed the connection to P2A-870. He glanced around at the members of SG-1, all of whom had joined him in the Control Room as the gate was dialed. The look on O’Neill’s face as the wormhole evaporated said it all. The colonel was restless, edgy, and badly in need of something constructive to do.

The general remembered his own similar feelings after his best friend had been shot down over Vietnam. Joe Carlson had bailed out of the burning plane; Hammond had seen his ’chute open and drift toward the landscape below, and had radioed Joe’s position in the hope that he would be recovered. Hours had stretched to days and eventually to weeks with no word of the man’s fate, however. The only thing that had kept Hammond on anything approaching an even keel had been the fact that he’d remained busy. There wasn’t much downtime in those days for an Air Force pilot stationed in ‘Nam, and he’d flown missions despite the gnawing worry over his closest buddy.

He’d never seen Joe again…

Savagely, he shut down that train of thought. With any luck, things would be different for O’Neill and Cromwell. Still, the key right now might be sending O’Neill and his team on another mission. A brief one, to be sure, probably just simple recon. There were plenty of gate addresses from the Abydos cartouche still to be explored, and more had been added to the list by O’Neill himself while in the grip of that alien database. A few hours on another planet where they would have immediate tasks rather than more waiting around would occupy the colonel and his teammates and hopefully bleed off some of the stress that was obviously building up, especially in SG-1’s CO.

“Colonel.” He gestured to O’Neill. “I’d like you and your team to come to my office.”

Ferretti spoke up. “Me too, sir?” Hammond had noticed the major quietly taking up station near the stairwell just before the Stargate connected to P2A-870, and suspected the rest of his team were still in the mountain despite being free to go off-base after their return from P4X-293.

“Not — ” the general began, then stopped himself. _Not at this time,_ he’d been about to say. But it was clear Ferretti was concerned over Cromwell to. Hammond was aware that old bonds ran deep. “Come along,” he told the major with a nod.

In his office, he didn’t bother to sit as he consulted the master mission schedule. Next up was P3W-924. It was always a gamble, sending a team through to a new destination for the first time. There was no telling what they might find there, although most commonly the gates were located on pastoral worlds. Occasionally they might encounter Goa’uld or Jaffa, but more often they encountered no one at all, or only another group of humans descended from ancestors transplanted long ago by the parasitic Goa’uld. There was no reason to expect P3W-924 in particular to be any different from the bulk of places the SG teams had visited. For all anyone knew, it could be just another planet with strangely-colored vegetation, like what Ferretti and SG-2 had recently encountered.

“Colonel O’Neill, I know how badly you want to get back to P2A-870 and resume the search for Colonel Cromwell. Believe me, I’m as anxious as you are for that to happen. Cromwell is a good man and a fine officer, and I’m eager to bring him home safely.”

He saw the colonel’s eyes begin to narrow, and raised a hand to forestall complaint. “You know as well as I do that there’s little point in sending a team into the middle of what is, for all practical purposes, a hurricane. It would be nearly impossible to search under those conditions, and even hurricanes have to wind down or move off sometime. Until then, we wait. But we’ve also lost more than two weeks from our schedule due to the time dilation this facility experienced while the Stargate was coupled to its counterpart on P3W-451. The President, the Pentagon, and the Joint Chiefs have made it clear that we must continue our explorations, and the last thing we need right now is another delay that might bring political pressure to bear against this command.”

“So what are you saying, sir?” O’Neill didn’t even bother to disguise his irritation.

Hammond kept his tone calm. “I’m saying that unless the weather on P2A-870 clears by the time of the next MALP check-in at planetary local dawn, approximately our 0700 hours, I’m ordering SG-1 to embark on a mission to P3W-924. Simple recon, there and back again in less than twenty-four hours. Those twenty-four hours will help us remain in the good graces of certain powers-that-be, and will also allow extra time for the weather system currently affecting P2A-870’s Stargate not only to clear, but possibly for its aftereffects to abate as well, at least to some degree.”

“General — ” the colonel began.

“Colonel, I have no choice.” Hammond leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk; his gaze swept the assembled personnel. “You all heard Senator Kinsey’s complaints when he was here last year. Except for you, Major,” — he glanced at Ferretti — “and I’m sure you’ve heard most of it since then. We’re under a tight schedule and I really don’t have the option of placing things on hold right now, especially for my flagship team. I’m sorry.”

In truth, he probably _did_ have a bit more leeway than he was letting on, but not much. Most important right now, though, was giving O’Neill and his team something constructive to occupy their time and their energies while they waited for the opportunity to resume their previous mission. The colonel was wound up tighter than Hammond had seen him in recent memory, and if he didn’t find some way to reduce the excess tension, Hammond feared he wasn’t going to be half as effective when he got back to P2A-870 as he might need to be.

“General Hammond, sir?” Ferretti again, his respectful words couched in a tone that betrayed his own level of concern. “What about SG-2? Couldn’t we take this recon instead? ”

Hammond fixed him with a stern expression. He’d been hoping Ferretti would pick up on what he was trying to do, but no such luck. “SG-2 just returned from an off-world mission this afternoon, Major. You’re to stand down for forty-eight hours unless conditions on P2A-870 improve during that time, in which case you’ll accompany SG-1 and SG-5 on the search-and-rescue mission.”

He saw O’Neill’s scowl lift slightly, replaced by a questioning look. “Yes, Colonel, you heard me. As soon as SG-1 returns from P3W-924, you will have a ‘Go’ to return to the search for Colonel Cromwell if conditions permit. I’m not putting that on hold beyond what the weather dictates. I’d just like to get something more accomplished while we wait. You’ll have twenty-four hours to complete a recon of P3W-924, and for all I know it may not take even that long. You’ll embark at 0800, unless the morning MALP query says otherwise. For now, I want you to go home and get some sleep, then be back here at 0600 to prep for travel. Dismissed.”

 

***

 

The light from the cottage window was fading toward dusk. It slanted wanly across the sheet of paper that lay on Cromwell’s writing-desk, half-covered in the Pridanic script that had assumed a more elegant character in his mind the longer he was exposed to it. He paused in his writing to review his choice of words, then resumed, the letters forming up in rows to march behind his quill. The colonel filed nearly all of his ‘paperwork’ by means of the wax diptychs commonly in use among the Pridani, but occasionally he transcribed certain items to paper-and-ink for more permanent storage. Cadogan had asked him to do so with his report concerning events at the mine, adding detail and fleshing out the rather terse account he’d initially provided nearly a week ago upon returning.

All in all, he reflected, their mission had been a success. Of the contingent from Llanavon, none were lost and there were only two injuries worthy of mention — a sprained wrist and a broken finger, both involving one of his men. Upon the party’s return to the village they’d healed quickly under the ministrations of Cadogan and Sabar, using the Tok’bel healing device.

The group had been expanded temporarily by the addition of several other miners who’d joined with Tesni’s group and continued on with Cromwell and his team to the rendezvous near the caves. Hailing from various settlements within a twenty to thirty mile radius of the mine itself, most had traveled to the mine in wagons now lost to the fire. They’d managed to collect their horses, none of whom had bolted terribly far from the mining camp itself. The loss of their wagons, however, meant they’d have had to walk to their distant villages, a journey of up to two days on foot in winter. Acutely aware the miners lacked sufficient provisions for the long trek. Cromwell had decided to bring all of them to Llanavon as it was the closest settlement of sufficient size to supply spare wagons and provisions, or to offer lodging until other arrangements could be made.

And so it was that Cromwell and his Wolves along with Tesni, Ceinwen and a dozen other Llanavoni had shepherded some fifteen fellow miners to Llanavon. They arrived with the waning light of sunset, leading or in some cases astride the great horses that had lately drawn their carts. The colonel had alerted Cadogan via communicator while they were still on the road, and the villagers had turned out to greet them and escort everyone to hot baths, clean dry clothing, a hearty meal and comfortable quarters.

Cromwell had sat late into the night with Cadogan, too keyed-up from the events of the day to seek his bed when the others turned in. Tesni had joined them after a time, and shared the decanter of _dwr o fywyd_ her uncle had brought out for the occasion. At Cadogan’s request she’d related her own experiences at the mine, sitting in one of the _cadlywydd_ ’s horsehair-upholstered chairs with glass in hand while Cromwell stretched himself on the hearthrug and waited for the warmth of fire and whisky to permeate his being.

He’d been impressed by Tesni’s account of events. When she mentioned Coll’s remark about the identity of the blond Jaffa whom Sholan had killed, Cromwell shared a nod with Cadogan. “That confirms it, then,” said the _cadlywydd_. “This group originated from the same source as those we encountered on Emhain. All the evidence points to Moccas, and Sholan will see to it that this raid is woven into the narrative he and our other Tok’bel operatives are feeding Bel as cover for the rebellion’s activities.”

“Do we know for sure he and his party were unharmed?” Tesni asked.

“I had word from our scout at the _chappa’ai_ that the general and his companions left Tir ’nAwyr at sunset,” Cadogan told her. “The general led the group and his Jaffa were bearing two wounded: one Jaffa and one of the general’s Goa’uld subordinates. They left quickly, most likely for Bohan.”

Things had been quiet in the intervening week. A messenger from the mine had arrived with a request from Eiluned for more staff to replace those who had ‘understandably taken their leave’ when the battle broke out. Idris and Cadogan had responded by detailing Nenniaw’s team to fill the gap for one week’s turn.

Most of the non-local miners who’d come to Llanavon with Cromwell and his team journeyed onward to their homes within a day or two after their arrival. Cadogan spent some time conferring with Dylan and Mael, the rebel brothers from Tarren Ma33;r, who’d tarried longer at the _cadlywydd’_ s request. This afternoon they had announced their intention to leave for home on the morrow.

Cromwell paused again every few words to dip the quill in oak-gall ink, reflecting that while the need to do so interrupted the flow of his writing, it also provided him with additional time to collect and organize his thoughts. If nothing else, it helped to offset the difficulty that editing a more hastily-written report would have entailed, given the permanent nature of pen and ink as opposed to a wax diptych — or the computer he’d used on Earth, what seemed a lifetime ago now.

The sound of footsteps behind him announced Tesni’s approach, and he looked up as she leaned in to lift the glass chimney of his desk-lamp and light the wick. “It’ll be dark before you finish,” she said mildly as she replaced the chimney.

“Probably so.” He grasped her left hand and brushed his lips across it before releasing her to attend to her own tasks. Twice in the past four nights he’d startled from dreams in which he saw her yet again in the mine compound, while a Jaffa aimed his weapon directly at her. Each time he found himself unable to utter a warning, his voice frozen in his throat, and as he raised his own zat to fire at her attacker the dream evaporated to leave him wide-awake in bed with his heart racing. He had no idea whether the events of that day troubled her sleep or not. If they did, she surely hadn’t mentioned it to him.

“I saw Tegwyn outside the stable, talking to Cynwric again,” Tesni remarked, setting her taper into its holder on the dining table. Warm light spilled across the smooth oaken surface as she began to set out plates for their supper.

“The boy from Tarren Môr?” Cromwell had noticed that their niece had developed a keen interest in the youth during the days he’d spent here in Llanavon.

“That’s the one. She’s quite taken with him, and he seems to like her as well. Pity he lives so far away.”

Cromwell reflected yet again on how much greater a distance of thirty miles could seem in a low-tech environment than in a world that possessed modern transport and paved roads. “True,” he agreed.

“Ris has been spending time with him, too,” Tesni continued. “Cynwric was curious about the _gwrthaflau_ he’d seen in the tackroom, and Ris was telling him how they were your idea.” She topped off his mug with fresh tea from the pot before setting it on the dining table. “You might spend some time explaining them to Cynwric before he returns home.”

The colonel chuckled at the prospect of sharing his ‘idea’ — stirrups for riding, which he’d long since taken to explaining publicly as the odd invention of a family friend in his youth — with an interested audience. “Well, then, I’ll have to look the young man up. _After_ dinner,” he added, drawing his wife onto his lap when she would have passed on her way to the hearth. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling its scent, then kissed her neck. “And not _too_ late into the night,” he added, before nibbling the spot he’d just kissed. “He and his kin will want to make an early start tomorrow, I’m sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Once again, please accept my apology for the inordinate wait for this chapter. A lot has happened since November. After much anticipation and struggle, I finally relocated from Ohio to Maryland this April. Along the way I entered into a relationship with the love of my life, a man I first knew some twenty years ago. (We both agree that we likely should have gotten together then!) J and I fell out of touch sometime in the late 90s but never forgot each other, and he reached out to me on Facebook last year. He helped me to move here, and we now live together. I am introducing J to SG-1, for although he has long been a fan of scifi television, he actually hadn’t watched anything in the Stargate franchise until now.
> 
> J completely supports my writing, so with his encouragement I expect to update more regularly going forward. Look for the next chapter of ATWLB sometime in early July.
> 
> Ana Lake  
> Annapolis, Maryland  
> 18 June 2014


	59. Necessities

_The wise learn many things from their enemies._ — Aristophanes

  


  


**0800 hours, August 13**

Standing at the foot of the ramp, O'Neill pursed his lips as the Stargate's outer ring spun. Visiting P3W-924 was the last thing he wanted to do right now. The Joint Chiefs and their schedule could go to hell for all he cared.

A moment later, the final chevron slid into place and the familiar _kawoosh_ of the event horizon's formation filled the Gate Room. O'Neill sighed inwardly, resigning himself to the mission. He knew intellectually that there really was nothing more he could do for Frank at present beyond waiting for the weather to clear on P2A-870. Brooding wouldn't help, and he had his orders. Not that any of this made him feel better.

"Colonel?" Carter glanced at him, obviously concerned.

"Let's go, kids." He started forward up the ramp as the event horizon settled into the rippling, watery-looking surface that indicated a stable wormhole.

  


***

  


"Move, move, move!" Cromwell urged his men forward. The passageway ahead curved to the left, and two of the Wolves took up covering positions, zat'nik'tels at the ready. At Brioc's _all clear_ gesture, the rest rounded the corner and entered a larger chamber whose ornate walls enclosed a pair of equally elaborate consoles and a throne-like chair surmounting a raised central dais.

The sound of footfalls echoed from the passage opposite and a half-dozen armored figures entered the room with ma'tok staff weapons raised. At the heart of the group strode a tall figure in copper-hued armor Cromwell recognized as that worn by Bel's generals. The helm was retracted, revealing a chiseled face and glowing eyes.

{"Who are you?"} Goa'uld harmonics echoed painfully from the chamber's walls.{"And how dare you come armed into this place?"}

Armagil fired first, from a spot closest to the command chair. The air crackled as both sides exchanged fire, energy bolts lighting the chamber's dim interior.

After a moment, Cromwell decided he'd seen enough. "All right, hold it!" he ordered. "Stand down!" A last sizzling bolt grazed the wall nearest him before both sides cased firing.

"I don't care what they say, you get hit enough times in the same spot with one of those things and it burns." Brioc rubbed his left shoulder and scowled.

"Then don't _get_ hit," Cromwell advised dryly.

A chuckle echoed across the room as the other armored figures retracted their ram's-horned helmets. Nenniaw pulled the gauntlet from one hand and ran his fingers through sweat-damp hair as his helmet disappeared into the metallic cowl around his neck. "An _intar_ still beats live fire, though, you have to admit."

Sefys — one of Sabar's Tok'bel lieutenants, pressed into service playing the role of the Goa'uld general — grinned as he brushed at the copper-washed breastplate of his armor. {"They certainly make exercises like this easier, I'll warrant."}

Cromwell was familiar with the effects of the low-intensity weapon used for training. Visually indistinguishable – save for a red crystal in the grip – from the real weapons they were meant to simulate, _intars_ delivered a variable-intensity bolt that could be adjusted for different training situations. Most settings only stung without causing actual injury. Until recently, the _Am Rhyddid_ had been in possession of only a few of the devices, relying instead on target work and alternative methods for integrating the use of Goa'uld technology into their training without causing injury to their own. However, Tok'bel agents had managed to liberate a shipment of them just before Midwinter, and Cadogan wasted no time introducing them to the rebels' training regimen.

It was around the time the _intars_ arrived that Cromwell first suggested the idea of a training mock-up to Cadogan. He'd done so directly on the heels of discussing the prospect of the flight simulator on which he would learn to operate the ha'tak's piloting controls. Cadogan had confirmed that Garlen was the kind of Tok'bel who enjoyed breaking new ground when it came to constructing technological devices and other items, so asking him to reproduce a ha'tak's helm control station wasn't outside the realm of reason. The knowledge had sparked another idea in the colonel's brain.

"If he likes challenges, I've got another one for him," Cromwell had told his CO. "Or, really, for anyone who wants to take a stab at it."

"What's that?" asked Cadogan, with a note of wariness in his voice.

"Well, we're going to be operating in a completely different environment with this mission. Most of my men, and I assume most of our personnel in general, have only run missions on a planetary surface or within underground structures like the mines. The places we've been have a human feel to them and not much in the way of technology. You're accustomed to tech and so am I, but a lot of the people we'll have with us aren't. I'd like to train them so that they're used to its presence and can work with it to their advantage, rather than being distracted by their surroundings."

Cadogan looked intrigued. "What are you suggesting?"

"Is there somewhere we can build a mock-up of the interior of that ha'tak — at least the crucial portions, anyway? Something so that the men and women who'll carry out this mission can get used to the type of surroundings they'll be working in? After all, they're going to be up against folks who are familiar with that kind of setting, and that could be a disadvantage unless we do something to mitigate it. My men are pretty well-trained, but a completely novel environment can be disconcerting no matter how hard you try to focus on the job at hand. Trust me on this; I'm speaking from personal experience."

He felt Tesni's hand squeeze his shoulder in private understanding. Across the table, Cadogan nodded, his lips curved in a faint smile. "No doubt," the _cadlywydd_ said simply. "Sabar and I will talk to Garlen and a few of the other Tok'bel, and we'll see what we can do."

Today marked the mock-up's first use. Creating it had taken most of the spring and summer and — according to Sabar — tested Garlen's skill at manipulating the Tok'ra technology normally used for constructing their subterranean habitats. In the end, the Tok'bel had opted to simply add a chamber to their base at Caer Ynys, then used the space to construct a replica of a ha'tak's bridge and other vital areas largely by hand. The human teams slated to hijack Bel's ship would gate to the Tok'bel's lonely moon for training. The decision to use the rebellion's captured suits of Jaffa armor to enhance the experience had been Cromwell's own, heartily endorsed by both Cadogan and Sabar.

Cromwell hadn't been quite sure what to expect from the mock-up itself. Neither he nor his men had ever seen the interior of a ha'tak, after all. All he could do was speculate based on what he knew of the al'kesh and to a lesser extent, the tel'tak. Ger'tak cockpits were much more stark and utilitarian, but he was aware that larger Goa'uld vessels tended toward the ostentatious.

And that was putting it mildly, he'd learned. The vessels used by the Tok'bel had been either stolen from the Goa'uld outright, as in the case of Sabar's tel'tak, or salvaged after being found abandoned in space or in some of the wilder sections of the surfaces of the Five Worlds. Sabar's people had modified them a bit, removing the most intrusive decorative elements. Cadogan had shared with the colonel Sabar's own descriptions of Goa'uld buildings and vessels. Cromwell reflected that if those descriptions were accurate and if this mock-up were indeed representative of their capital ships, "gaudy" might be the mildest adjective one could apply to the Goa'uld aesthetic sense.

He glanced once more about the simulation's bridge — what Sabar called its _pel'tak_ in Goa'uld. Reaching this chamber and securing it would be the key to seizing control of the ship. Sabar had outlined several possible scenarios for this. The teams would work with all of them, and with anything else Cromwell could think of on his own. Based on the latest estimates from the movement's spies in the shipyards at Galla, they had maybe six months to prep for a mission that could radically improve the rebellion's odds of success in eventually freeing the Five Worlds.

"All right, let's run this one again," he ordered.


	60. For Whom We Fight

_Bella suscipienda sunt ob eam causam, ut sine injuria in pace vivatur._  
 _Wars are to be undertaken in order that it may be possible to live in peace without molestation._  
Cicero— _De Officiis._ I. 11.

 

 

In Bel's administrative palace, Sholan settled into his chair and flicked a data tablet to life. Late afternoon sunlight streaming through the single narrow window of his office washed out the tablet's display for a moment, until he shifted position slightly and settled the tablet on his left knee. Running a finger along the device's edge brought up a scrolling list of Jaffa units and their current assignments off-world.

 _I see two additional units are being sent to Galla,_ noted Brice.

{Yes, to the orbital shipyards.} Sholan scrolled the display again. {Bel's new ha'tak is coming along, and he's understandably paranoid given Moccas' raids over the past year or two.}

 _You don't think this might cause trouble down the line when Sabar launches his own raid to take the ship?_ Sabar had made Sholan and Brice aware of his plan some months earlier, in the hope that Sholan would be able to increase the rebels' chances of capturing the vessel when the time came.

{Not if I can exert the right pressure regarding which units are in place then, and how long they've been there.}

Bel's Jaffa rotated among his several worlds, spending several months at a stretch on first one, then another, before getting home to their families on Bohan. As 'General Kasol', Sholan kept abreast of the status of the units, noting their deployment and their movements. Bel's First Prime, Tirin, was directly responsible for commanding Jaffa personnel according to his master's will, but the System Lord drew heavily on the counsel of his generals regarding the use of Jaffa and other resources. The right words in the proper tone, spoken at just the moment when Bel was most susceptible to influence, held the potential to sway fate.

 

 

***

 

Cromwell opened the shutters on the window closest to the table, testing the air. It was barely sunrise, but already the temperature was unseasonably warm. He left the window unshuttered and turned to Tesni, still in her nightdress with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She'd complained of an upset stomach on first waking, but having consumed a cup of tea, was now busy pulling bread and cheese from the cupboard. "I wonder if this warm spell is leading to a mild winter, or to a harsh one?" he asked.

"I don't know that it really says anything about what kind of winter we'll have." She carried the loaf to the table and placed it on the cutting board, adding a wedge of yellow cheese beside it. "But you're right, the weather is still so nice. All the same, I am glad of a fire in the evenings."

Cromwell poured fresh tea into their mugs and laid plates on the table as Tesni sliced bread and cheese. Early dawn light painted the side of her face closest to the window. He loved the contours of her face. Hell, there wasn't anything he _didn't_ love about her.

Having risen early, they ate a leisurely breakfast as the light grew stronger, until the candle was no longer necessary. Cromwell extinguished it, then reached for the teapot, pouring again for them both. Setting it down again, he remarked, "This warm weather can last as long as it likes, for all of me. Still, though, it _is_ autumn. The nights are cooler, and we've got shorter days… oh, that reminds me."

He removed the watch from his wrist. It still kept time, after more than two years on the same battery he'd installed only a month before his fall through Earth's stargate. He knew that eventually it would stop, but for now he still found it a useful item. Other than the boots and belt he'd been wearing when he fell, the watch was the only thing from Earth that he still used. He did have to reset it about once a week, however, as Tir Awyr's slightly shorter rotational period caused the watch to get out of sync with local time as measured by the sun. The difference was only a few minutes per day and had taken him several weeks to calculate based solely on his observations, but once he'd managed to do so, the colonel made sure to adjust his watch regularly to keep it as current as possible.

He also had to adjust its calendar function periodically to coordinate with local dates. He knew the names the Pridani used for the months on their calendar, of course, and mentally he matched them to their Earth equivalents, assigning Heulwenmis to July and Tesog to August, for example. But months on Tir Awyr were uniformly thirty days in length, except for the first month, Mis-bach — literally, "short month" — which was only twenty-eight days long. This was Medi — September, by Earth's system, at least more or less — with Cynhaeaf or October just over a week away. The autumnal equinox would be on the first of Cynhaeaf, he knew. _Amazing how quickly the past year has gone,_ Cromwell reflected as he performed his weekly time adjustment.

Suddenly, he paused, thinking. Unless he was imagining things, and he was pretty sure he wasn't, his watch wasn't the only thing out of sync lately. Counting in his head only reinforced the impression. He glanced across the table at his wife, who calmly sipping her tea while she observed him fiddling with the timepiece. _Tesni and I are going to have to have a talk soon, if I'm not mistaken._

She must have seen something in his expression, for she set down her mug, favoring him with a slightly amused look. "Something on your mind, _cariad_?" she asked.

For a moment, he debated just coming right out and asking her if what he suspected was, in fact, true. A second later, he dismissed the idea. _She's a woman, and unless I miss my guess, they prefer to tell us these things on their own timetable. If there_ is _anything to tell, she'll get around to it soon enough._

Aloud, he said, "Nothing, really. Just thinking."

She smiled. "About what?"

He had to say something. Fortunately, another thought was near to hand.

"About how lucky I am to wake up with you each morning." It was the truth, and to hell with whether or not it was sentimental. The colonel knew all about the tough-guy image people attached to people like him, at least back on Earth. He also knew that he'd always been something of a romantic at heart; image be damned. And anyway, this wasn't Earth.

Across the table, Tesni smiled and laughed. "Silly man. I'm the lucky one; don't you know that?" She stood, taking up the teapot and carrying it toward the fireplace, where the kettle still steamed. Reaching out, she ruffled his hair as she passed, and he grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

A knock at the door put paid to further conversation, at least for the moment. "I'll get that," said Cromwell, rising from the table.

He opened the door to find Anwen with a basket in her hands. "Good morning, Neirin," said his sister-in-law. "Is Tesni ready to go?"

"Come in, Anwen," called Tesni from the direction of the fireplace. The colonel stood aside from the door as Anwen entered, placing her basket on the table.

"What are the two of you doing today?" he asked.

"There's a work party going out to gather apples for cidering. Care to join us?"

Cromwell thought about it. "I have a meeting with Cadogan, but once that's finished, I should be able to come and help."

 

 

***

 

Meleri dropped the apples into the cart, and hurried off to the shady spot where her infant son, Sulgan, fussed in a basket of his own. The baby was six months old, having been born in the spring. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, he resembled his mother and his father both. Rhufon, Meleri's husband, knelt by the basket, crooning to his son, but the infant still fussed. "I think he's hungry," the young man told his wife as she approached.

Meleri picked up her son, who immediately began butting his head against her, searching for a breast. "I think you're right, _cariad_ ," she told Rhufon, plucking the baby's blanket from the basket and moving to sit against the trunk of a tree. Soon the child quieted as he fell to nursing.

Cromwell noticed Tesni watching Meleri and her infant as she carried yet another small basket of apples to add to the cart that was being filled. His wife took a break and went to sit with her friends, and the colonel returned to picking apples. About ten minutes later, the work crew broke for lunch, and he went to join Tesni and the other couple in the shade. Meleri was unpacking bread, meat and cheese from a cloth bag while Tesni held a now-sated Sulgan.

"Neirin, would you be so kind as to get our lunch? I seem to have my hands full at the moment," she asked as he approached. "The bag is just there, with the yellow embroidery." She pointed at a bag similar to Meleri's, hanging from a low branch in a nearby tree.

Cromwell retrieved it and took a seat next to his wife, noting as he did so the way she smiled at the baby in her lap. Sulgan was alert, his eyes following the newcomer. He waved tiny fists in the colonel's direction, gurgling.

"I think my son likes you," commented Rhufon with a chuckle.

Cromwell smiled at the baby. "Hello, little man."

Tesni laughed. "Here, let's trade." She passed Sulgan to her husband, and took the bag containing their lunch, extracting sandwiches and a stone bottle of cool tea.

He settled the infant on his lap. Sulgan cooed and smiled, then set about blowing bubbles. The colonel remembered holding Jack's son Charlie at around the same age. At six months, Charlie had been just a bit larger than Sulgan, with the same fair hair, though his eyes had been brown like his father's. Cromwell had loved Charlie like his own, and as the boy grew he'd greatly enjoyed visits from his Uncle Frank.

He still missed Charlie.

Tesni passed him a sandwich, smiling. "You seem to have made a new friend," she commented.

"It appears so," he replied, accepting the sandwich one-handed.

"I can take him now, if you want," offered Rhufon.

The colonel looked down at Sulgan. The infant's eyes were half-closed and he had his thumb in his mouth. "Let's not disturb him. He's fine where he is for the moment."

Lunch break over, the rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly though by the end of the day, Cromwell was sure he'd be seeing apples in his sleep that night. At Anwen's invitation, he and Tesni ate dinner at Bennaeth Bod before walking back to their own cottage.

He deposited their lunch bag, now filled with apples from the orchard, on the table, then tended to the banked fire in the hearth. The air was growing chill as dusk deepened, and he added a couple of logs, building a cheerful blaze. Tesni sank onto the high-backed settle and removed her shoes, wiggling her toes and sighing. She propped her feet on a hassock and watched her husband as he poked at the fire.

Finally satisfied with the fire, Cromwell lit the oil lamp on the side-table and joined her on the settle, pulling off his own shoes, a rather new pair he'd gotten recently from the local cobbler. They fit well, but he was still breaking them in, and it felt good to go about in his socks for a while. He propped his feet next to Tesni's on the hassock and reached for the latest book he'd borrowed from Cadogan's library. Since learning to read Pridanic, the colonel had taken to borrowing books on a regular basis, eagerly devouring every scrap of written material he could find regarding his adopted people and world, along with its sister worlds. Fiction, poetry, prose, historical accounts — it scarcely mattered; he was fascinated by all of it. There was even a collection of plays by an author named Hyfaidd ap Morvran that he felt could easily have vied with some of Shakespeare's work in overall quality.

Cadogan and Sabar, quietly amused by their friend's hunger for reading material, had begun borrowing Pridanic translations of works not in their own library from off-world friends so that Cromwell could read them. Arverenem in particular had produced some very good literature, only a fraction of which had thus far been translated into Pridanic although the two languages used the same script. Cadogan had insisted on teaching him some Arverenic for practical use in the field, but the colonel found the ability to enjoy an even wider range of literature to be a nice by-product.

The book he currently had on loan was a volume of short stories by a contemporary Pridanic author, one Olwen ferch Cathwg. The _cadlywydd_ held her works in high esteem, and Cromwell could see why. They tended toward the comedic, drawing on witty observations from everyday life, and he'd taken pleasure in reading one or two of them aloud for both Tesni's entertainment and his own. " _Fy nghalon_ , would you like me to read to you?" he asked, propping the book on his lap and wrapping the other around her.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "That would be nice." She stifled a yawn, then smiled up at him. "I'm tired, though, so if I fall asleep, please understand that you aren't boring me."

He laughed. "Between you and Sulgan today, I might think I was the most boring person in Llanavon."

"Sulgan is adorable, isn't he?"

"He is. It's been a long time since I held a baby, before today. I'm glad he was comfortable enough to fall asleep in my lap," said the colonel. "A lot of infants won't do that with a stranger."

"Sulgan really likes people, and Meleri says he hardly ever fusses when someone new picks him up, as long as she or Rhufon are where he can see them." Tesni grinned. "It was cute seeing you hold him. I knew you liked children, but I wasn't sure how comfortable you were with little babies."

"Well, I've never had one of my own," he told her, "but I do like them. My best friend Jack had a son who was like a nephew to me, remember, and I used to hold him every chance I could when he was a baby. It wasn't often, unfortunately, because we both had to be gone a lot around that time, and babies grow so fast."

"That had to have been hard, being away."

The colonel nodded. "It was harder on Jack, but neither of us was very happy about it. We both loved his son."

Tesni reached across the book in his lap and took his hand, stroking the back of it with her thumb, as was her habit. "I imagine you must miss him. Was this a long time ago, Nye? How old is the boy now?"

Cromwell was silent for a moment before answering. "It was almost sixteen years ago that he was a baby, but… he died when he was ten."

Tesni looked up at him, stricken. "How awful! Was he ill?"

The colonel shook his head. "There was an accident. It hit me pretty hard when I got the news. But it's a long story, and I don't really feel like talking about it, if that's all right." He always hated doing that to her, but there really were things he didn't feel comfortable explaining to anyone, not even Tesni. Fortunately, she always seemed to understand and accept this.

Nor did she disappoint him now. "You don't have to. It's all right." She shifted a bit on the settle, leaning into him and resting her head against his chest, gazing down at their entwined hands. "I'm still surprised you've never had children of your own, though. I know that you and your first wife were together for several years. Did you not want children? Or perhaps Lisa didn't? There are ways to prevent their conception, I know."

Hard as the topic of his failed first marriage was to talk about, it was easier than discussing the circumstances of Charlie's death. "It wasn't that at all. In fact, we did want them, but… well, like I said, I had to be gone a lot, and we were sort of waiting for the right time. Only it never came. And then eventually we weren't together anymore, the way I explained to you once."

"You aren't the first person to have had something like that happen." Tesni continued stroking the back of his hand. "It seems strange that we've never asked each other this before, _cariad_ , but… do you still want children?"

In that moment, he knew his suspicions were correct. Something in the tone of her voice, combined with the little bit of calculation he'd done over breakfast that morning — even the upset stomach she'd complained of on awakening. "I'm going to guess that's an academic question at this point, now isn't it?" he asked lightly, unable to keep from smiling, although at the moment she wasn't looking at his face. He couldn't keep the smile out of his voice either.

The sound of an indrawn breath accompanied the tightening of her fingers on his hand. "You already knew?"

He chuckled. "Tesni, I've been married twice now; I'm hardly ignorant of how a woman's body functions. And a man can count as well as a woman can."

"So when did you figure it out?" She sat up and looked him in the eye with a smile of her own.

"This morning. Which, if I know anything at all, isn't more than a week or so after you did — for certain, that is."

She nodded. "You're right; it's been not quite a week. It can take a couple of cycles to be sure, and that point came while you were in Dinas Coedwyg a few days ago with my uncle. I've just been looking for the right moment to tell you."

"So, let's see…" He engaged in another brief moment of calculation. "That means a due date somewhere near the end of Blodeumis, or early in Cyntefin, then?" His child would be born in the local equivalent of either April or May; more likely May.

"That would be my estimate." She kissed him. "So… are you happy about this?"

 _She asks me if I'm_ happy _? By all rights I shouldn't even be alive now, but I am, and by some miracle this woman loves me and is about to give me a child years after I threw away my first marriage and what I thought was all chance at fatherhood along with it — and she has to_ ask _if I'm happy?_ "Tesni, tell me in what possible way you might think I'd be anything else?" Suddenly, a thought struck him. "Wait, maybe I should be asking you that question. You're the one who has to do the hard work here. Are _you_ happy?"

She kissed him again, more deeply this time, before answering. "You're right, _cariad_. It is a silly question, isn't it? I'm very happy. After Eogen died, I never thought to be a mother, because I never thought to allow myself another love. Until I met you, and even then, I knew you meant to leave again soon, and so for the longest time I did nothing…" She shrugged. "But it seems I'm lucky enough to be getting everything I wanted. You're still here, you've given me your love and promised that even if you can go home, you won't go without me. And now you've given me a child. To say that I'm happy doesn't begin to describe it."

He placed Cadogan's book on the side-table and pulled Tesni onto his lap instead, his arms tightly around her, breathing deeply the sweet scent of her hair. As on the night they'd both admitted their feelings for one another, he was incredibly grateful to whatever agency of good fortune had seen fit to place himself and Tesni together, after all else that had happened to them both. He wanted to laugh, to cry — to race in circles, perhaps, shouting in joy, _Yes, this,_ this _is my life,_ this _is what I wanted._

And, as also on that night, some part of him was more frightened than he could put into words. First-time fatherhood, at his age, on an alien planet in the middle of what was effectively a war — one in which both he and the mother of his child-to-come were involved, even if he did spend a hell of a lot more time on the putative front line than did she. _Yeah, sure, no sweat…_


	61. Intelligence

_One man’s magic is another’s engineering._ — Lazarus Long (R.A. Heinlein, _The Notebooks of Lazarus Long_ )

 

{“You wished to see me?”} Sabar paused at the entry to Garlen’s chamber, deep within the hidden fortress of Caer Ynys.

The other Tok’bel looked up from his seat at a worktable just inside the doorway. The table’s surface was littered with evidence of a brilliant, if eclectic, technical mind. A trio of data pads nestled among naquadah-alloy housing segments and half-dismantled crystal control circuitry Sabar thought he recognized as belonging to at least three different devices. A fourth, larger datascreen occupied table’s the far end where Garlen sat with a mug of steaming tea in one hand and a stylus in the other. {“Come in, Sabar, and take a look at this with me.”}

Sabar approached, taking up a position just behind Garlen’s right shoulder. Row upon row of symbolic script glowed softly on the screen; though he recognized the characters themselves, their arrangement yielded little that he could readily decipher beyond one or two basic logical statements. {“What am I looking at?”}

{“The key to Bel’s kingdom, so to speak.”}

{“Say that again.”} Sabar peered at the display. The lines of code still meant little to his untrained eye, but he knew Garlen could read them as easily as reading a book.

Garlen set his mug down and pivoted in his seat. {“I’ve broken the locking algorithm that controls Bel’s ring transporters. One of our operatives at the Galla shipyards managed to pass a copy of the code along, so now we have access to the system.”} He patted the top of the screen housing. {“That little invention I showed you plans for last year? This is what will allow it to work.”}

{“The control software for his is different from what runs the one on my tel’tak?”}

Garlen nodded. {“The hardware is identical, but the software is different. Mostly it’s a matter of security routines, since Bel is so paranoid. Remember, he doesn’t trust any of his offspring, especially now that Moccas has been nibbling around his domain. The last thing he wants is for one of them to figure out how to ring a strike force right into the palace or onto his flagship. So he had his techs rework the system to guard against it.”}

Sabar grinned. {“And now you’re saying we have that ability?”}

{“In theory, we do. In reality… ”} Garlen grimaced. {“Let’s just say we’d only get one chance and it would have to be a very small force. There are better ways for us to use this ability.”} He brightened. {“There are enough interesting tricks in here that I’ve got some ideas how to improve our own systems. I can even set it up so ours should be undetectable by anything not native to our own network. Mind if I make a few changes to the transporter on your ship?”}

Under normal circumstances, the ring system on a Goa’uld or Tok’ra vessel could detect nearby ring platforms on a planetary surface or in nearby ships. The ability to go stealth would provide an additional safeguard for Caer Ynys – or any Tok’ra base – should a Goa’uld ship pass within close range. And it would be invaluable for situations that might bring Sabar’s tel’tak in range of such a vessel, as was anticipated in the planned mission to steal Bel’s newest ha’tak, currently under construction at Galla.

{“Do it.”} Sabar levered himself off the edge of the desk. {“Did we get a progress report on the construction?”}

Garlen frowned. {“According to Tamar’c, the operative who got us this code, things are a bit delayed. Apparently one of the main external hull segments was being rotated into place, and the grav-generator they were using to manipulate it cut out. Inertia carried the segment right into the near side of the dry-dock. It sheared off part of the structure, depressurized the dock’s command center, and then wrapped itself around the station’s lift core.”}

Sabar let out a low whistle. {“When was this?”}

{“About four days ago now. Tamar’c says they’ll have to rebuild part of the dock, plus repairing the command center and the core. The hull segment is probably a total loss and will have to be refabricated. All this could add as much as six months to the construction time-frame”.}

 _Well, at least that gives us additional time to prepare,_ offered Cadogan silently.

{True,} Sabar acknowledged. Aloud, he said, {“We’ll have to recalibrate our timetable as we get new information.”}

Sefys appeared at the doorway. {“Excuse me, Sabar. Nasara is here to see you.”}

While Nasara’s arrival was unscheduled, it was certainly welcome. _Just as long as she doesn’t make yet another ‘offer’ to couple with us,_ Cadogan reminded his symbiote.

Sabar chuckled inwardly. {She won’t. We extracted a promise from her the last time she was here, remember?}

Nasara awaited them in the dining lounge where she sat alone at a corner table, contemplating the steam that rose from the bowl and mug before her. {“Sabar,”} she said by way of greeting as they sat down across from her. {“I’m on my way to meet with Lantash on Qus. But I have a bit of time to spare, so I thought I would pay you a visit.”}

{“Well met, as always.”} Sabar eyed her, noting the desert robe that cloaked her host’s slender frame. She’d thrown back its cowl, and a sand-colored rucksack occupied the seat beside her. Qus, he recalled, was one of the worlds controlled by Ra, where he’d settled the bulk of his human slaves in arid climes that bordered the more fertile regions where his Jaffa multiplied and nurtured his offspring. {“Dare I ask what the Council have you and Lantash doing this time?”}

{“This isn’t Council business. Lantash wants to follow up on a hunch.”}

{“What kind of hunch?”}

Nasara pursed her lips for a moment before speaking. {“You recall I told you some years back about that rebel who’s given Ares so much trouble? Ma’chello?”}

{“The one from Dendred, that he’s been seeking for, what is it, some fifty years now?”}

{“Yes. Ares found him, and tried to make a host of him. Ma’chello escaped just before the implantation ceremony was to have occurred.”}

Sabar frowned. {“A host? Ma’chello must be an elderly man by now, no? Why would Ares wish to saddle his son with an aged host rather than a young, healthy one?”}

{“Because despite Ares’ best efforts and those of his First Prime, they gained virtually no information from Ma’chello. They tortured him for half a year, repeatedly reviving him in a sarcophagus, but the man must have a will of steel because he never broke. Implanting him was the only way to access knowledge of his rebel network and the devices he is said to have invented to fight the Goa’uld.”}

 _I don’t like the sound of that at all,_ came Cadogan’s silent comment.

{“The Goa’uld almost never give any thought to the host’s mind once they have comandeered the body, lest their own thoughts be contaminated,”} Sabar protested. {“That’s what they regard as Egeria’s worst flaw — and our own.”}

{“Yes; well, Ares in his rage has thrown convention aside and in so doing has found a frighteningly useful tool.”} Nasara shook her head sadly. {“He first located and captured Ma’chello’s wife and ordered her implanted with another of his brood, to lay a trap for Ma’chello. When the trap was sprung, they had their quarry in hand. After traditional methods of interrogation proved fruitless, Ares opted to use another of his siblings in a similar fashion. I can’t say Hephaestus was thrilled at the prospect of being ordered to change hosts, but Ares was quite intractable.”}

The image chilled Sabar to the core. {“You were there?”}

{“I was. Just after your last visit to Rak’lar, the Council ordered me to infiltrate Ares’ domain. Anise surmised that if half the rumors about Ma’chello’s work are true, there might be value in figuring out where he’s hidden some of the devices he’s made. But with her host Lena showing so much age, Anise obviously couldn’t go herself — at least not with the objective of presenting as Goa’uld and getting close to Ares. The Council sent me instead. So I saw everything, including Ares’ response to Ma’chello’s escape. He went personally to Dendred and ordered its leaders brought to him for questioning. Not one of them would volunteer a word as to where Ma’chello had gone. Ares had every one of them tortured with pain sticks, and two actually died. Still he got nothing, even when his ha’taks began blasting population centers from orbit.”}

Sabar caught the taste of Cadogan’s horror and tried to reassure his host. {Steady, my friend.} Aloud, he asked, {“How long ago was all this?”}

{“Ma’chello disappeared just over six weeks ago, and I got away from Ares’ fleet as soon as I could afterward. I had to stage a bit of an accident with a tel’tak, but Maia and I were able to walk away, if none too comfortably.”} Nasara grimaced. {“We’d seen enough, while learning precious little because even Ares hasn’t a clue. Wasted nearly a year. Meanwhile Anise and Lantash, dosed with _sheta_ and in the guise of a human woman and her son, followed up other leads that suggest Ma’chello did not confine his activities to Ares’ realm alone. They didn’t really find anything, and returned to Rak’lar some time before I did. But Lantash won’t let it go, and went off to Qus on the basis of some whisper he heard while they were on assignment. Anise has no interest in joining his explorations, and the Council have sent Jolinar elsewhere, so Anise suggested I might go and meet up with him. At the very least, I can replenish his supply of _sheta_. I suspect the Council are almost relieved he’s found something with which to occupy himself in Jolinar’s absence, even if it bears little fruit in the end.”}

{“Do you need anything? _Sheta_ , or whatever?”}

Nasara shook her head. {“No, I have everything I need. I just wanted to bring you the news. How are things with you?”}

Sabar brought her up to date while carefully leaving out the more troubling details of recent events, especially in light of what she’d just related. If the Goa’uld began taking serious notice of their hosts’ minds, the way his own folk had done since Egeria spawned them, the risk to the Tok’bel and to Cadogan’s rebels would go up immeasurably. Bel’s queen Zara still spawned offspring regularly to replenish the supply of symbiotes for the realm’s Jaffa, and a few of each brood were chosen to receive hosts at maturity. Decades ago, Cadogan’s own son Garin had been made host to Bel’s son Calir, and only Calir’s complete disinterest in Garin’s mind had prevented Bel from learning the full extent of the Tok’bel’s and _Am Rhyddid_ ’s activities. Certainly, the Am Rhyddid and its sister movements had been careful since that time to prevent those with knowledge of the rebellion from being taken as potential hosts, but they had also relied upon the Goa’uld habit of disregarding the original occupants of their host bodies for protection.

After seeing Nasara on her way, Sabar called Kharys, Garlen, Sefys and Kaldin together in the conference chamber and apprised them of what he’d learned. {“This may pose a real danger, both to us and to our human associates. If any of you have ideas as to how we can safeguard the movement, I’d like to hear them.”}

Sefys pursed his lips. {“Right now, I think the only safety we have lies in the very small number of offspring Bel allows to actually take hosts once their time with the Jaffa is over. His paranoia is to our benefit. But is it enough?”}

{“I doubt it.”} Kharys looked thoughtful. {“I never thought I’d say this, but I wonder if the Council have been right all along. Perhaps we should not have allied ourselves openly with the _Am Rhyddid_.”}

{“It’s too late to turn back,”} cautioned Garlen. {“We’ve tied our efforts so thoroughly to these rebels that even were we to abandon them now, it’s likely Bel might track us down out of spite if he learned the truth. Better we should focus on finding a way to deal with the situation as it stands.”}

{“Agreed,”} said Kaldin. {“So what do we do?”}

Sabar looked from one to another of his friends in turn, around the polished table. {“I think what we need is some method for suppressing or even eradicating knowledge or memories in the event a human is taken as a host. But it has to operate _only_ in that event. We can’t have people just forgetting at random. How can we achieve this?”}

Garlen appeared to consider the question. {“The technology to influence human thought from the outside does exist, of course. It is possible to force someone to recall memories, and even to manipulate dreams in real-time. But it requires an external device, and that isn’t going to work in this situation.”}

Kaldin nodded. {“We need something internal, that a symbiote can’t detect. A post-hypnotic suggestion, perhaps?”}

{“There’s virtually no way to administer that to every individual who’s come in contact with us or with the rebellion,”} Sabar replied. {“I doubt we could even count on getting it to every rebel and their immediate family. After more than a century of activity, knowledge of the rebels and of ourselves — or at least the suspicion we exist — is too widespread for that.”}

{“Something miniaturized, programmable, and capable of spreading on its own through the general population might do,”} mused Kharys.

Garlen started. {“You mean nanites?”}

{“Possibly. If they were constructed of organic materials and programmed to break down and be absorbed or excreted after delivering their programming, they’d be undetectable by the Goa’uld.”} In typical fashion, Kharys warmed to a concept if it presented an interesting biological problem, Sabar noted.

Kaldin groaned. {“I’m not enamored of nanites. Can’t trust them.”}

{“We may have no choice,”} Sabar told him, then turned to his science and technology experts. {“Do you think you can make this work?”}

{“I can come up with the programming,”} said Garlen. {“The delivery system will pose constraints, but I can develop something to work with those — as soon as I know what they are.”}

{“Let me experiment with some common human viruses,”} suggested Kharys. {“I  might be able to tailor one of them to suit our needs.”}

Sabar nodded, satisfied for now at least that his people would forge a solution if one were possible. {“Get on it, then.”}


	62. On Holiday

_Wait for that wisest of all counselors, Time._

— Pericles (490 BC - 429 BC), from  _Plutarch, Lives_

 

**13 August 0725 hours**

"So you'll go and check out this planet Hammond's got scheduled, and you'll probably be back in time for dinner." Ferretti shrugged. "Piece of cake. The way it's raining on P2A-870 this morning, it isn't like we could probably go there this afternoon anyway."

O'Neill scowled at his bootlace, saying nothing as he pretended to work out a knot. He knew Ferretti's light tone was meant to reassure, but right now everything was getting on his nerves. Hammond had a point about needing to keep the top brass in Washington happy, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"Jack, you know me and the guys will stay right here on base the whole time you're gone. The minute you get back, if Hammond says 'Go', we're all gonna go find the colonel."

O'Neill gave the bootlace a savage jerk and finished tying it. "I know that, Lou. I also know when I'm being given busywork, and that is exactly what this feels like."

Ferretti shook his head. "I can't say I blame you there," he acknowledged. "But what else can you do?"

The maddening thing was that Ferretti was right. "It still sucks."

"Sure it sucks. Tell me something about all of this that doesn't suck." Ferretti clapped him on the shoulder. "Look, you go find me some more of that crazy pink grass or something. We'll hold down the fort while you're gone, okay?"

 

***

 

Cromwell swallowed. Seen up close, the al'kesh was an imposing vessel. Even in this underground hangar, its sleek lines hinted of deadly potential. He'd felt that power under his command these past three hours, as Sabar guided him through another training flight in this, the largest craft in the Tok'bel fleet. Accounting for the difference in length-width ratio, it rivaled the C-130. "You know, there are times I still can't believe I'm flying something this big."

{"You're doing quite well at piloting a vessel of this size, Neirin."} Sabar clapped him on the shoulder, smiling. Cromwell sometimes wondered about the familiar gestures the Tok'bel leader used. With which of the pair had they originated? After all, Cadogan used them too.

He turned the thought aside to focus on more immediate matters. "Thank you. I won't say it was easy the first time I tried it, but it's getting easier. I'll need to keep practicing if I want to have any hope of being able to handle a ha'tak, though." If the al'kesh was big, the ha'tak was enormous — nearly half a mile across. The Tok'bel tech specialist Garlen, true to his word, had managed to build a simulator of the giant ship's controls, but no matter how much time Cromwell spent using it there was just no real substitute for actually maneuvering in space.

Together, they turned and made their way toward the tunnel that would lead them back to the heart of Caer Ynys. As if reading his most recent thoughts, Sabar asked, {"How comfortable do you feel with the simulator?"}

Cromwell snorted. "I'd better plan to get a lot more flight time in, that's for sure. I have to admit I'm glad we've gained some breathing room from that accident at the shipyard."

Sabar palmed the control for the airlock the Tok'bel kept in place as a precaution should something damage the hangar's egress and breach the forcefield that held its atmosphere within. As the door slid aside he gestured for Cromwell to precede him into the chamber. {"Agreed,"} he said as he joined the colonel and touched the control panel again. {"We're looking at late summer, earliest. Think you'll be ready by then? If not, you know I originally had planned to pilot that vessel myself. I can always lead one of the teams and — "}

Cromwell shook his head and palmed the lock's inner door open. "We can't risk you." They entered the long tunnel that sloped gently downward to the rest of the base, booted feet echoing from the crystalline structure that surrounded them. "I'll be ready."

 

***

 

**13 August 0815 hours**

Hammond turned from the observation window as the wormhole sizzled out of existence within the Stargate's ring. Seeing SG-1 off on their recon mission to P3W-924 had given even him mixed feelings. O'Neill's irritation had been palpable, and the general had noted Major Ferretti watching quietly from a far corner of the Gate Room. The major was likely there to lend moral support, but he and his men really should be taking advantage of their downtime to get some needed rest before — hopefully — being sent off on a search-and-rescue once SG-1 returned.

He wasn't going to say anything, however. In Ferretti's shoes, Hammond knew he'd probably do the same thing. He mounted the spiral stairs and snagged a fresh cup of coffee from the Briefing Room's always-ready pot on the way to his office. Settling in at his desk, he surveyed the day's allotment of paperwork. Getting back up to speed after the loss of two weeks involved more than just catching up on the survey schedule. The military operated on a steady diet of dead trees and multiplicate reports, an inordinate supply of which had found their way to his in-basket over the past several days. He shook his head and got to work.

It seemed he'd barely made it through a third of his coffee when the klaxon blared, announcing an unscheduled offworld activation of the gate. He was halfway down the spiral staircase when he heard Simmons announce, "We're getting SG-1's code, sir."

"Open the iris," Hammond ordered. The trinium-alloy panels retracted, and soon the team emerged from the rippling event horizon. Teal'c carried a limp figure whose straggle of long white hair indicated advanced age.

There was no telling what SG-1 might have found in the scant quarter-hour they'd been gone, but it had obviously been sufficient to make them return posthaste and with company. Hammond grabbed the microphone. "Medical team to the Embarkation Room."

 

***

 

Cromwell woke in the pale light of dawn to the patter of sleet against the cottage windows.  _Third straight day of this weather,_  he groaned inwardly, burying his face briefly in the pillow. This late in winter, periods of rain alternated with snowfall, turning the ground to slushy mud that frequently refroze when the temperature dipped at night.

"Nye?" Tesni's voice, close by his ear. He could feel the warmth of her body as she snuggled next to him, and the curve of her belly now nearly seven months with child. A moment later he felt a kick in the small of his back.  _Little early to be practicing for soccer tryouts, kiddo._

"Oof," breathed Tesni. "Someone's certainly awake."

"So I noticed." Cromwell shifted, stretching. His hands met chill air as they left the shelter of the covers. "I'll go and take care the fire while you stay put until it warms up a bit in here."

In woolen robe and house-slippers, he padded to the cottage's main room. It was a relatively simple matter to poke at the embers of the banked fire and bring it back to life, then feed the renewed flames with wood until he achieved a cheery blaze. Warmth radiated from the fireplace within a few short minutes, but he noticed that his hands were still chilled as he swung the kettle-bar over the flames to heat water for tea. His throat was scratchy too, he realized.  _Damned inconvenient time to come down with a cold. I've got at least a dozen different things to accomplish this week, and no time to be sick._

Tesni joined him as he was pouring hot water into the teapot. She set out bread and cheese on the table, then took a tin canister from the cupboard. "I think it's a good day for some hot porridge, don't you?"

Cromwell coughed before answering. "I won't say no."

His wife's expression grew concerned. "Hmmm. The sound of that cough… " Her hand was cool as she felt his forehead. "You have a fever. You've probably caught that cold that's been making the rounds." In the past two weeks a number of the local populace had endured the sniffles, and a few of the younger children had broken out in a rash that had kept Rhufon, the local healer, busy with lotions and poultices. Cromwell remembered having had chicken pox when he was six, and could sympathize with them. Still, he knew it was best to get that out of the way at a young age. At least the adults were only coughing.

"Not much of a surprise, I suppose." He wasn't often ill, and he'd contracted a cold perhaps twice since arriving on this world. Generally he found that if he just set his mind to ignoring the discomfort, they passed within a couple of days or so. "I'll be all right."

As the day wore on, however, the symptoms grew worse rather than better. By evening he admitted to himself that this felt more like the flu than a simple cold. After he and Tesni shared a light supper, he pled fatigue and went to bed, fortified by a tea brewed from willow bark and slippery elm — Tesni's ready remedy for such maladies.

He awoke to daylight, vaguely aware that it felt much later than his usual time of rising. Full daylight seeped around the window's drawn curtains, and he heard Tesni moving around in the next room. His throat felt like it was on fire, and the rest of his body seemed to have followed suit. He was undeniably feverish, and more than a little achy.  _Definitely flu, or something equally unpleasant._

Tesni entered, carrying a basin and cloth. "Oh, you're awake? Good." She dipped the cloth into the basin, squeezed it out, and placed it against his forehead. It was blessedly cool and smelled vaguely of witch hazel, just as his mother and grandmother had used when he'd had fevers as a child. "Rhufon should be here soon to see you."

"I doubt there's much I need him for," Cromwell protested. "I'll admit I don't feel well at all, but I've had this kind of fever before. I'll be all right in a couple of days if I just rest and ride it out."

She shook her head. "Neirin, I don't think you've had this before, or you wouldn't be having it now."

"It's just a fever and cough, with a few aches. I'm good."

"Oh for… Look!" Tesni grabbed his hand and waved it before his eyes. It was covered in small red spots.

Cromwell groaned at the sight. "If this is what it looks like, I had it when I was six years old. I shouldn't have been able to get it again."

"There are more than one kind of pox, you know," she replied, rewetting the cloth. "Two of them will keep you from getting any of the others, but if the one you've had isn't one of those… "

He cut her off. "I've had one type, and been — "  _how do you translate 'vaccinated' into Pridanic?_ " — I was given a treatment on my homeworld that prevents the others."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "For your entire life?"

"It should. This must be something different that we don't have back home." He was seized by a fresh thought. "You probably shouldn't be anywhere near me, given you're with child. It could be dangerous."

Tesni shook her head. "I'm perfectly safe, and so is the baby. This looks every bit like rose fever, and I had that when I was eight. If you've had rose fever you can't get any other pox, so you needn't worry."

A knock at the door interrupted them. Tesni excused herself to answer it, and a moment later ushered a tall, spare figure into the bedroom. Rhufon set a large leather satchel on the dresser, then moved to lean over the bed. "So, Neirin, let's see what we can do for you."

The healer quickly assessed the colonel's condition, examining his skin and eyes, and the lining of his mouth and throat. He drew a curious trumpet-shaped tube about a foot long from his bag and placed its bell against Cromwell's chest while holding its other end to his ear.  _So that's the local version of a stethoscope,_  the colonel mused as Rhufon listened to his heart.

"Deep breath, please.".

The inhalation turned quickly into a bout of coughing, and Rhufon withdrew the instrument. "As I expected," he said. "You've contracted rose fever, and what sounds like a chest cold along with it. The cold is going around everyone, but I'll admit I'm surprised you've also caught the spots. Most people have this when they're young, before their teens. I gather you didn't?"

Cromwell shook his head. "I thought I had, but it must have been a different ailment. One set of spots looked like any other to me when I was a boy. I only remember they weren't much fun."

Rhufon chuckled as he washed his hands in the basin Tesni brought. "I imagine not. At any rate, you'll live. I'll give you some lotion to keep any itching at bay, and willow-bark tea should help with that fever. Beyond that, all you can really do is rest. Three or four days in bed should do, and another three lying low at home."

"I don't have that kind of time to lie around," said Cromwell, pushing himself upright in bed. Tesni moved to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. "I'm a busy man."

"You're a sick man," Rhufon countered. "Rest is the only cure for this. Get some."

 

***

 

 **13** **August 1143 hours**

 _This just keeps getting better._  Hammond resisted the urge to swear as he turned away from the infirmary door. It wasn't enough that Doctor Jackson now occupied a bed there, trapped in the frail body of the elderly man SG-1 had encountered on P3W-924, but the team's second foray hadn't brought them any closer to a solution. Teal'c and O'Neill had accidentally swapped bodies, courtesy of the same alien device that had caused Jackson's predicament. Captain Carter was examining the machine in her lab, using the colonel and Teal'c as subjects in her quest to learn how to make it reverse the process. Meanwhile, Ma'chello — its creator — was at large somewhere in the Springs, wearing Doctor Jackson's body. At least Hammond hoped he was still in town.

"Sir?" Fraiser's voice, behind him. The general turned to find her standing just outside her office. "I'm doing the best I can for Daniel. When Ma'chello is located and brought in, we'll find out how to reverse the exchanges."

" _If_  he's found in time," Hammond said, just a bit more harshly than he'd intended.

"Right now, sir, it's the only hope Daniel has." Fraiser assessed him with a look. "In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?"

 _Only if you can turn back time, Doctor._  Aloud, he said, "No, Doctor Fraiser. As you said, all we can do is wait."


	63. A Family Man

_The greatest strength is in gentleness._ — Leon Shenandoah, Onondaga elder

 

Winter had given way to the warmth of spring, and a carpet of yellow buttercups brightened the slope from the stone circle surrounding Tir ’n Awyr’s stargate to the nearby woods. Cromwell noted their brilliance in a distracted way as he accompanied Cadogan and Gerlad down the hillside. The trio had just returned from Caer Ynys where Cadogan had held another meeting of the Tok’bel council while Gerlad and Cromwell took a quartet of rebel officers from Emhain on a practice flight in some of the Tok’bel’s small squadron of ger’tak. At present, an even dozen men and women — including Armagil and Tathan from the Black Wolves — had volunteered for or been coaxed into the program. Gerlad, Cromwell and even Cadogan were kept busy instructing them in the hope that as more came forward this first cadre might be able to train those who followed.

“According to Sefys, survey teams located five additional ger’tak this past month,” Cadogan was saying. “Two were adrift in orbit around a small moon of one of Arverenem’s neighboring gas giants. The other three were on the moon’s surface, with only minor damage. That brings our tally of functional fighting craft to twenty-three.”

Cromwell shot him a sideways look. “Not counting your tel’tak, you mean.”

“Correct,” said the _cadlywydd_ in a tone of mild amusement, “if only because you’d debate the point with me otherwise. Garlen still says he could mount oversized ma’tok — ”

“So we need at least fifteen more pilots,” Gerlad interrupted smoothly, by now surely accustomed to this sort of exchange. “Enough to fill the available seats and have reserve personnel should some be unavailable. Of course, that’s only enough for our present fleet. Once we capture the ha’tak, we’ll have its fighter complement as well.”

“Sources at Galla confirm twenty-eight ger’tak under construction, with another twenty planned,” said Cadogan. “There’s no guarantee they’ll all be completed by the time we strike, and any that are complete but not on board when we take the ship will have to be destroyed unless we can steal them too.”

Cromwell shook his head. “I don’t see how we’re going to get them all.”

“Nor do I,” Cadogan acknowledged. “But it would be nice to be able to try.”

In Llanavon, Cromwell continued to turn the problem over in his head after his companions departed for the stables to take mounts and ride to Dinas Coedwyg. Privately, he thought both Cadogan and Sabar were both being just a bit overoptimistic regarding the rebels’ ability to recruit and train enough pilots in the estimated four or five remaining months before Bel’s new ship would be complete. Granted, once they had the ship in their possession some of the Tok’bel could step in to pilot ger’tak if necessary. But given the relative paucity of Tok’bel numbers and the fact that through lack of a queen they were the last of their line, it would be better if this could be avoided. He knew that Gerlad, at least, shared his concern.

Still pondering, he crossed the square and paused for a moment at the far side. Turning left would take him home, while turning right would bring him to the building that served as the _Am Rhyddid_ ’s local command center. _Might as well get some work done before bothering Tesni,_ he thought, and turned right. His wife had not slept well these past several nights, being near her due date and plagued by backaches. He’d been gone overnight this trip, and hoped that having the bed to herself might at least have helped her somewhat.

He’d no more than settled into the chair in his office when Tegwyn appeared in the doorway. “Uncle Neirin, my mother saw Uncle Cadogan on the street and knew you'd returned. She sent me to tell you that Aunt Tesni is in labor.”

“For how long?” The colonel was on his feet before he got the words out.

“Since before dawn. Creirwy the midwife is with her. The babe is near to being born.”

 

The little cottage was a bustle of activity when he arrived. Bronwen, Creirwy's apprentice, turned from the fire where she had just dipped water from the kettle into a basin. "You've made it back just in time if my mistress is any judge," she said by way of greeting as she carried the basin into the bedchamber.

"No doubt," Cromwell replied, then paused just outside the bedroom doorway. Was he actually expected to be present in the room at the delivery, as was common for fathers in his home culture these days? Or was Tesni's insistence on his presence, a request made only once but in a tone that had brooked little dispute, a nod to her awareness that he was not in fact a product of her society?

"Well, are you going to stand out there all day, or are you coming in?" said another voice from within. Creirwy's tone managed to mix sarcasm with affection, a trademark of her bedside manner.

"Nye, come and hold my hand," called Tesni.

Ducking his head to hide a smile, he did as he was bidden.

Tegwyn and Bronwen had been right. No sooner had Tesni taken hold of his hand than she was seized by a powerful contraction. Her grip tightened and he felt his fingers go nearly numb.

"Almost there, love," said Creirwy. "Let's have another half-dozen of those, shall we?"

Somewhere in the whirl of the next few moments Cromwell vaguely registered Anwen's arrival at the doorway, but he was focused on Tesni, breathing with her, bracing himself for her grip when each fresh contraction came. He lost himself in the rhythm of it: breathe, grip, push, repeat. Breathe, grip, push...

A loud wail pierced the air, and he felt Tesni relax. Creirwy straightened, clutching a damp and squalling bundle. "You have a fine baby girl," she announced, smiling. "And she certainly has healthy lungs." Cromwell watched as Creirwy deftly bound the umbilical cord in two places and then cut it between with sharp scissors.  "Just give me a moment to get her cleaned up." The midwife turned away toward the basin, murmuring soothing words as she gently wiped the infant down with a warm, wet cloth.

_A girl!_ Cromwell grinned. He hadn't cared whether they had a son or a daughter, as long as the child was healthy. He'd been looking forward to fatherhood for months, and he knew he'd be teaching any child of his the same things and playing the same games, regardless of gender. The Pridani did things that way as a matter of course, and it was a healthy way to raise children. "What else can I do to help?"

Creirwy looked over her shoulder and chuckled. “Ask your wife.”

“Nye, would you get me a drink of water, please?” Tesni requested.

“Of course.” He moved to the dresser, where a pitcher and cup rested on a tray. Filling the cup, he carried it back to the bed.

Tesni leaned back against the pillow, her face flushed. A few wisps of sweaty hair had escaped her braid to curl damply against her forehead. She looked tired but happy as she took the cup and drank. As she set the cup on the side table, Creirwy approached and placed a squirming, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.

Tesni smiled, looking down at her daughter, and then at her husband. “Sit beside me, _cariad_ ,” she said, nodding toward the space beside her on the bed.

Cromwell eased gently onto the bed, careful not to disturb his wife, who must surely be sore and fatigued after giving birth. Tesni smiled, shaking her head at the exaggerated care he was taking. “I’m not fragile, Neirin,” she said. “Come closer, and sit against me.”

He scooted closer, adjusting the pillow behind her back as she raised herself to sit a bit straighter. He put an arm around her shoulders and together they gazed at their daughter. The newborn’s face was still rosy from the stress of birth, and a shock of unruly dark hair stuck up in all directions from her head. Tiny fists waved in the air, free to move about after the confines of the womb. “She has your hair, and so much of it,” Tesni commented.

Cromwell chuckled. “She does seem to. I haven’t seen all that many newborns, but most of them had less hair.”

“Not many are born with so much,” put in Creirwy, smiling as she bustled about the room, cleaning up. “But both Ris and Tegwyn were born with full heads of hair, and old Aregwedd told me that Idris and Tesni were the same way when she delivered them.”

Tesni laughed. “It’s true. My mother used to tease me about it when I was a little girl, as she would brush and braid my hair before school. She said I’d been born with tangles, and would likely always have them.”

The infant squirmed again, fussing, then opened her eyes. They were bluish-gray. “I think she has your eyes,” Cromwell observed, “although it’s hard to tell. I’ve seen other babies start out with bluish eyes that turned brown eventually.”

_Well, one, anyway_. Charlie’s eyes had done that in the six months between his birth and the Christmas when a pair of impatient servicemen had driven across the Rockies in a snowstorm to surprise their wives, after flying into Travis AFB from overseas two days before the holiday, having been certain that they would spend Charlie’s first Christmas at Incirlik, far from hearth and home. The memory brought with it a familiar pang of regret over the boy’s tragically shortened life, but Cromwell pushed it aside, focusing on his own child today. His father had been blue-eyed, while his mother’s eyes were the same dark brown as his own, so he knew his daughter’s could turn out either way. Only time would tell.

Creirwy stood at the doorway, shooing her apprentice out. “Bronwen’s going to get some fresh bedding, and Anwen said she’d bring you something to eat,” she told them. “I’ll be in the front room, writing notes until they return. In the meantime, I’ll give you three some privacy.” Smiling, she stepped out, pulling the door partway closed behind her.

Reaching out, Cromwell stroked the baby’s cheek with one finger. Her skin was amazingly soft, and she hiccupped at her father’s touch. He chuckled again. “All I know is that she’s beautiful, just like her mother.” He leaned over and kissed Tesni.

She smiled, then moved to give him the child. “Here. You should hold her for a while, too.”

He took his daughter in his arms, cradling her against his chest. “Hello, _annwyl_.”

The baby wriggled and hiccupped again, peering up at him in the unfocused manner common to newborns, and the colonel felt tears of joy prick his eyes. _His_ child. Fatherhood was a privilege he’d thought he’d never have, but now here he was, holding his firstborn in his arms, while sitting next to the woman he loved more than life itself. That he’d had to travel an unknown distance across the galaxy to another planet in order to reach this point was immaterial at the moment, as his heart filled to overflowing with gratitude — toward his wife, toward the other people here who he’d come to realize loved him as one of their own, and toward whatever agency of good fortune had brought him to this place, this life.

He kissed the infant’s forehead, blinking back the tears, then felt Tesni’s hand on his face. She didn’t say anything, merely coaxing him close when he turned to look at her, and kissing him again.

Drawing back after the kiss, he smiled, shaking his head slightly in wonder. “I love you,” he told her, his voice rough with emotion. “I never thought… I just…” He gave up, shrugging. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“Thank _you_ ,” she said. “I love you, too.”

They sat silently for a few moments, enjoying the quiet time together — just the three of them. Then the baby began to fuss.

“Our daughter would probably like to nurse, so let me take her,” Tesni said, opening the front of her nightdress.

He passed the baby back to his wife, who put the child to her breast. “What are we going to name her?” he asked. “I know we discussed a few names, but we hadn’t decided.”

“I still like ‘Seren’. And it suits her.”

_Seren_ meant “star” in _Naina_ Cromwell’s modern Welsh. Its Pridanic analogue had a slightly different pronunciation and had separated from the common noun but as a name it was one of the few with a recognized meaning — in this case, light. “Are you certain that’s a common name for girls here?”

“Common enough, though not so much as to have her meeting others who share it at every turn. It traditionally occurs in my family every couple of generations.” Tesni smiled. “If she isn’t a bright spot then I don’t know what is, Nye. Do you have a better name in mind than that?”

He had to admit she had a point. “Fair enough. Seren it is, then. She’s certainly a very bright spot in my life… just like her mother.”


	64. Appendix: Dramatis Personae & Glossary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this were a printed book, this is the stuff that would be in an Appendix at the back: a guide to the original characters, along with a helpful glossary of terms in Tok'ra and other languages used in this tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been asked by some readers, "How can I keep all of these original characters organized in my head?" I've also been asked about the provenance and pronunciation of some of the Pridanic or other non-English words I've used in _All That We Leave Behind_. Because of this, I've decided to put together a small reference page that some may find helpful. If you still have additional questions, please don't hesitate to contact me and ask!
> 
>  
> 
> _Warning! Describing characters can sometimes necessitate involving spoilers! Read the cast list at your own risk!_

**Dramatis Personae** (in order of appearance)   
_(other than the usual well-known characters from the SGC)_

_(For those seeking assistance with the general pronunciation of names and other words in Welsh (and therefore in Pridanic), a useful guide may be found[here](http://www.welshleigh.org/genealogy/welshnames.html).)_

**Colonel Frank Cromwell** — US Air Force Colonel, once-estranged best friend of Jack O'Neill. Fell through the SGC's Stargate while setting a shaped charge to force the gate to disconnect from P3W-451, which was orbiting a black hole. He becomes known among the Pridani as _filwriad_ Neirin ab Owein trwy Lona (Neirin, son of Owein by Lona; _filwriad_ is a military rank roughly equivalent to colonel in Pridanic usage. The pronunciation of his Pridanic name is NYE-rin ab OH-wine tru-ee LAW-nuh, and that of his rank is FIL-o-ree-adh). He also collects the affectionate nicknames "Nye" (short for Neirin), and "Neirin Llwyd" (pronounced "Hlew-id") at some point during his sojourn among the Pridani, as they are wont to bestow nicknames on nearly everyone, often according to some physical characteristic or other personal trait, and will use them to differentiate between two or more individuals with the same given name. Neirin Llwyd means "Neirin the Gray".

 **Ris ab Idris trwy Anwen** (his first name is pronounced HREES, with the "s" pronounced the same as in "son"; the rest of his name is pronounced ap YIH-drees tru-ee AN-wen) — son of Idris and Anwen, older brother of Tegwyn, nephew of Tesni.

 **Tegwyn trwy Idris ferch Anwen** (pron. TEG-wen tru-ee YIH-drees vairkh AN-wen) — daughter of Idris and Anwen, younger sister of Ris, niece of Tesni.

 **Tesni ferch Dwynwen trwy Teilo, o Branoc** (Tesni, daughter of Dwynwen by Teilo, of Branoc; pronounced. TES-nee vairkh due-IN-wen tru-ee TIE-lo oh BRAHN-ock) — Pridanic woman whom Frank meets upon his arrival at the village of Llanavon ("Hlanavon") on the planet designated P2A-870 by the SGC and called Tir Awyr (pron. "CHEER ah-wehr"; meaning land in the sky) by its own inhabitants. She is of somewhat noble birth, her late mother Dwynwen having served as chieftain of clan Branoc (in Pridanic society, gender does not determine social status or life roles). Tesni is an intelligence operative in the human rebellion against the Goa'uld lord Bel.

 **Nenniaw ap Hywel trwy Olwen** (pron. NEH-nyow ap HIH-wel tru-ee AHL-wen) — a team leader in the local unit of the rebel militia in Llanavon. He is a cousin to Tesni and Idris.

 **Dynawd ap Hywel trwy Olwen** (pron. DEE-nawd) — Nenniaw's brother. He is also a team leader in the local rebel militia unit, and is cousin to Tesni and Idris.

 **Celyn ap Morfudd trwy Ceinwen** (pron KEL-in ap MOR-vith tru-ee KYNE-wen) — Another team leader in the local rebel militia unit.

 **Cadogan ap Cynan trwy Hafgan, pen Branoc** "Cadogan son of Cynan by Hafgan, chief Branoc" (pron. CAD-uh-gan ap KEE-nan tru-ee HAF-gan pen BRAHN-ock) — Uncle of Tesni and Idris, his military rank is _cadlywydd_ , which translates as "battle-leader" and is roughly equivalent to "marshal" or "general". (The name Cadogan itself comes from roots meaning "battle glory" or "battle honor" and is a clue that the Pridani have a rather strong warrior tradition.) Cadogan is the patriarch of clan Branoc and its chief-in-fact, although he ceded his clan duties to Idris years ago because he has other fish to fry. As _cadlywydd_ (pron. KAHD-lew-ith or KAHD-lew-eedth), Cadogan is the high commander of the entirety of the _Am Rhyddid_ ("for freedom"), the human rebel military effort against the Goa'uld Bel. Cadogan is also the human host of the Tok'ra symbiote Sabar, who is the leader of the Tok'ra faction calling themselves the Tok'bel (Tok = "against", so Tok'bel = "against Bel") who have allied themselves with the Pridani and other Celtic rebels against Bel, who enslaved the humans two millennia ago. It is traditional among the rebels for whomever is Sabar's host to serve as the _cadlywydd_ or high commander of the human element of the rebellion.

 **Gerlad ap Bleddyn trwy Rhonwen** (pron. GAIR-lad ap BLETH-in tru-ee RHON-wen) — a military officer who serves as Cadogan's aide.

 **Sabar** (pron. sa-BAR) — Tok'ra symbiote who leads a small band or faction of Tok'ra who have chosen to break with the High Council's prohibition against overt, direct action against the Goa'uld in order to aid the Celtic rebels against Bel. This came about after Sabar blended with the rather strong-willed and persuasive Berwyn, whom he had encountered by chance while on a covert mission for the High Council. Berwyn was a teenager at the time, a Pridano who had been captured and made a court slave by Bel but not turned into a host. He was given as a gift to Sabar, who was undercover as the emissary to Bel of another Goa'uld lord. Sabar took Berwyn with him when he went back to the Tok'ra, and set him free on a world inhabited by free humans from among whom the Tok'ra occasionally obtained hosts. Not quite thirty years later, when Sabar's host was dying of old age, he went in search of a new host and Berwyn approached him, offering himself as host in gratitude for his freedom. Once blended, he convinced Sabar to aid the Pridani and the other Celts, who had already been discussing rebellion some thirty years earlier, before Berwyn had been taken from his world. Sabar, already chafing somewhat under the Council's restrictions, agreed and brought some similarly-minded friends along to help; thus were born the Tok'bel.

 **Idris trwy Dwynwen ap Teilo, pen Branoc*** "Idris by Dwynwen son of Teilo, chief Branoc" (pron. YIH-drees tru-ee due-IN-wen ap TIE-lo, pen BRAHN-ock) — Tesni's older brother, acting chieftain of clan Branoc. While technically himself a member of the local rebel militia, his primary responsibility is the administration of clan business and the well-being of the local villagers and the surrounding district.

 **Anwen ferch Meriel trwy Sywno** (pron. AN-wen vairkh MARE-yel tru-ee SEE-yoo-no) — Wife of Idris, sister-in-law to Tesni, mother of Ris and Tegwyn.

 **Armagil ap Bryn trwy Fiona** (pron. ar-MAH-gil ap Brin tru-ee fee-AW-na) — Pridanic man, a member of the first military unit under Cromwell's command in the Am Rhyddid. Serves as his company clerk for a time.

 **Sefys** (pron. SEF-ees) — Tok'ra symbiote; Sabar's second-in-command among the Tok'bel. His host is Duthac.

 **Duthac ab Arcol trwy Rhiain** (pron. DUE-thak ab AR-kol tru-ee HREE-ine) — Pridanic man, host of the Tok'ra Sefys.

 **Kaldin** (pron. KAL-din) — Tok'ra symbiote; friend of Sabar and member of the Tok'bel. His host is Joron.

 **Joron** (pron. JOH-ron) — Human male, host of the Tok'ra Kaldin.

* A note on Pridanic naming conventions: like many human cultures including the Welsh/Britannic tribes from whom they are descended, the Pridani use bynames rather than surnames as a means of identifying an individual. In Pridanic tradition, a person will have a given name, and also a byname which identifies them in relation to their parents. "Ferch" ( _fairkh_ or _vairkh_ , with the "kh" aspirated rather than hard) means "daughter of", while "ab" and "ap" mean "son of". ("Ab" is used before names beginning with a vowel, while "ap" is used before names beginning with a consonant.) "Trwy" means "by" or "through".

A Pridanic person's byname generally refers to their same-sex parent first, and their opposite-sex parent second. The exception to this is when identifying someone of noble parentage, in which case the higher-ranking parent's name comes first, or when a person introduces themself/is introduced to someone who has a stronger connection to one of their parents than to the other. Dwynwen, the mother of Tesni and Idris, was a clan chieftain, so while the normal practice of putting her name first in Tesni's byname satisfies both the condition of gender and the condition of rank, this changes somewhat with Idris, who is known as "Idris, by Dwynwen son of Teilo" rather than "Idris, son of Teilo by Dwynwen" as would be the case if Dwynwen had not been a noblewoman, or if Teilo had been of equal or higher social rank to Dwynwen, which he was not. This renders Pridanic bynames somewhat fluid, as the way a person will identify himself or herself can change according to context.

  
  
Glossary of Terms in Pridanic, Goa'uld, Tok'ra and Other Languages   


**Am Rhyddid** (Pridanic, "am RHEE-thid") — Term meaning "for freedom"; the name in Pridanic of the pan-Celtic rebel movement against the Goau'ld Bel.

 **anwyll** (Pridanic, "AN-weel") — Loved one. A term of endearment.

 **bennaeth** (Pridanic, "BEN-eye-th") — Chieftain. _Benaeth Bod_ = "Chieftain's House", the large stone manor in which Idris and Anwen live with their children, and sometimes Cadogan and Gerlad. The house is also used as place of gathering by the other members of their extended family and is the centerpiece around which Llanavon was built. Bennaeth Bod also refers to the extended household or family connected with the house itself, whether or not they physically reside there; the core of the clan, so to speak.

 **bod** (Pridanic, "bod") — house; also used in the sense of "household"

 **cariad** (Pridanic, "CAR-yad") — Beloved. A term of endearment.

 **drws deialwr** (Pridanic, "droos day-loor") — a DHD. Literally, "door dialer".

 **drws rhyng y byd** (Pridanic, "droos ring ee beed") — a Stargate. Literally, "door between worlds".

 **fach, bach** (Pridanic, "vakh", "bakh" with the "kh" sound aspirated rather than a hard "k"; think of the _ch_ sound in the German "Bach" or in the Scottish "loch") — Terms of endearment, basically meaning "small". _Fach_ is feminine, while _bach_ is masculine. Calling someone _bach_ is more or less equivalent to calling someone "son" the way that General Hammond does it, or calling them "dear". _Fach_ is the same way, but used when speaking to someone who is female. Used especially often with regard to children, but can be used with others as well, generally when the speaker is markedly older than the person being addressed.

 **fy** (Pridanic, "fee") — my

 **kara** (Tok'ra/Goa'uld) — many, or multi- (when used as a prefix with another word)

 **kesh** (Tok'ra/Goa'uld) — device (as in _kara kesh_ the multipurpose hand device or ribbon device that shields, shoots, subdues and — when used by the Goa'uld — tortures)

 **ma'tok** (Tok'ra/Goa'uld) — a staff weapon, like the one Teal'c uses

 **mai'tac** (Tok'ra/Goa'uld) — expletive, roughly equivalent to "Damn it!"

 **neb ankh** (Tok'ra/Goa'uld) — sarcophagus ("possessor of life" - directly from Ancient Egyptian)

 **nghalon** (Pridanic, "NGAL-on"; pronounce the "ng" as in "ring") — Heart. _Fy nghalon_ = "my heart", a term of endearment

 **pen, ben** (Pridanic, "pen", "ben") — chief, head. _pen Branoc_ = "head/chief of clan Branoc" (a title shared by Cadogan and Idris, as Cadogan is chief-in-fact, while Idris is chief in function due to Cadogan's having other, more pressing duties)

 **Pridanaes** ("pree-DAHN-ehs") — a Pridanic female

 **Pridano** ("pree-DAHN-o") — a Pridanic male

 **ta'el kesh** (Tok'ra/Goa'uld) — healing device worn on the hand, like the one that SG-1 obtained from Cimmeria.

 **ta'khet** (Tok'ra/Goa'uld) — term for what the SG teams call a DHD

 **til ta'khet** (Tok'ra/Goa'uld) — a portable gate controller that can be used to dial the gate in lieu of a DHD, allowing gate use on worlds where the DHD has been lost or destroyed.

  
  
_** Place Names: ** _   


**Tir 'n Awyr** ("CHEER nah-wehr") — Land in the Sky ( _tir_ , "land" + _'n_ (a contracted form of _yn y_ ) "in the" + _awyr_ , "sky")

 **Llanavon** ("HLAHN-ah-von") — Village at the River (from _llan_ , "village" + _avon_ , "river")

 **Dinas Coedwyg** ("DIH-nas COYD-weeg") — Forest City ( _dinas_ , "city" + _coedwyg_ , "forest")

 **Bren Argoed** ("BREN AR-goyd") — Hill Grove ( _bren_ , "hill" + _argoed_ , "wooded grove")

  
  
Because family terms are very important among the Pridani, here is a list of those as well:   


**llwyth** (Pridanic, "hlew-eeth") — clan

 **mam** (Pridanic, "mam") — mother

 **tad** (Pridanic, "tad") — father

 **brawd** (Pridanic, "browd", to rhyme with "crowd") — brother

 **chwaer** (Pridanic, "shwye") — sister

 **nith** (Pridanic, "neeth") — niece

 **nai** (Pridanic, "nye", to rhyme with "eye") — nephew

 **modryb** (Pridanic, "MOD-rib") — aunt

 **ewythr** (Pridanic, "ay-WITH") — uncle

 **mab** (Pridanic, "mob") — son

 **merch** (Pridanic, "mairkh", the "kh" being aspirated rather than hard) — daughter

 **wyres** (Pridanic, "wooh-res") — granddaughter

 **wyr** (Pridanic, "woohr") — grandson

 **cyfnither** (Pridanic, "KEEF-nith-air") — female cousin

 **cefnder** (Pridanic, "KEF-end-air") — male cousin

 **nain, naina** (Welsh and Pridanic, "nine", "NINE-ah") — grandmother

 **taid** (Welsh and Pridanic, "tide") — grandfather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder: Any modern or near-modern Welsh language used in this story is intended to stand in for a hypothetical related language, Pridanic, descended from the Brythonic language of the time when these people were taken from Earth. Brythonic was one of the two major language groups of the British Isles in pre-Saxon, pre-Roman times, and later went on to produce Welsh, Cornish, Cumbric, Breton and possibly other tongues. In the period from 100 BCE to ca. 150 CE, the time the Celtic peoples in this story were taken from Earth, Brythonic is postulated to have been one common language, possibly with two dialects. I am taking some license with the idea that another language evolved from Brythonic in off-world isolation would be at least close enough for a Welsh speaker to learn easily, possibly coming to sound something like a strikingly different dialect of Welsh.


End file.
